Drops in the River
by Kaitsy
Summary: A thorough look of series two milestones with Matthew through Mary's eyes. Slightly AU, some scenes original but it sticks to the script in other places. Mary & Matthew war angst, essentially. Lots of dialogue and internal struggles abound! T for dark themes, romance in later chapters.
1. 1916

**Hello! This is my third Downton Abbey story and will be multi-chapter whereas the others have not been. It is a deeply Mary story and it deals with the Great War time frame which is something that fascinates me endlessly, even with the new series coming fast - I will always want to know the feelings and events that happened during this time better. It's also a great time to write about because it's so broad and open to interpretation. So, this will move quite rapidly and mainly deals with Mary and Matthew, the agony over him being gone at war. It addresses each milestone meeting she has with him through series two, the war, as well as some of my own imagined one. So, it is a bit AU, but you will find the second series followed quite closely, just with more conversation and emotions between the two. It will probably be three chapters, dealing with different years through the war. I apologize for all of the angst but I love to write conversations between these two - The dialogue is great to try to capture.**_  
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**Please leave feedback if you feel like it but I will press on with it as long as I am inspired. Criticism is always welcome of course, I'm shaky on my newborn Downton legs, so let me know how it measures up. Thanks and 10 days til the next series! :)**

* * *

_Crown of leaves, high in the window on a cold morning_

_Young today, old as a railroad tomorrow_

_Days are just drops in the river to be lost always_

_Only you, only you, you know_

_- __drops in the river, fleet foxes_

_1916_

* * *

Mary blinked and two years had passed since the Great War had started. In her lifetime she would come to know it as the first of two world wars. Time carried on in strange intervals, Downton had changed in the face of war but not much, not enough. It changed drastically but while they still dressed for dinner in their best garments, took the meal in grand fashion even in times of rationing – it was not enough change. Mary did not know how else to change, for Downton was her life and wartime was not.

Staff members left for war, the young men venturing home to say goodbye to their families before setting off. Carson worried about the state of the house without enough footmen, considering letting maids serve in the dining room made his blood pressure rise and Mary smiled at stick in the mud Carson, so old-fashioned and endearing. If you let things slip in the face of war, Lady Mary (he had said), doesn't that mean the enemies are winning? He was a proud man, proud of the work he had done for the house. As he should be and Mary was not sure she was proud of anything she had done in her life. For what had she done?

She was afraid they would all watch everything deteriorate until Downton as they knew it was no more. But, then again, the world as they knew it was no more. World War, Mary would think – Such an abstract thing to her but in the eyes of the men around her she knew it was very real. Her Papa and Bates fought in the Boer war and they understood what these men were leaving to – They offered words of support but there is not much to say when you haven't seen it for yourself. The men enlisting would know soon enough, her Papa told her, they would know the weight of a rifle, the discomfort of a uniform and helmet and they would never turn back.

It was hard to turn back.

This, she knew, for in the two years since the war had started Matthew, heir to Downton, had not returned to them. He wrote to her Papa and would mention leave time and he would take it in London – He might have even returned to Crawley House but they never knew, he never wanted them to. It was hard for him to turn back.

Mary believed that her fallen love with Matthew played a part in it but she never dreamt it would be big enough to keep him away for two long years. It was uncomfortable to think of him as gone to war, on the front in some foreign parts – When she would try to think of him as a rifle carrying soldier, as a man turned, sacrificing his life and his identity for his country, she felt ill at ease, unsettled, and very scared.

Eventually he found his way into her dreams. Mary had a certain control over most things she did and felt (at least on some level) and she tried very hard to think of him sparingly, not out of lack of worry, concern, or...or _love_ but out of the pain of it all. She tried to think of him as a far off figure and keep him as blurred as possible, as far from her dreams as possible.

How appropriate so much tragedy befell them on that summer's day in 1914 – her Mama's tragedy, their tragic relationship, and then the war. It tore them apart quicker than their split up alone would have – It was a couple of short weeks before things came together, Matthew enlisted, took one last dinner at Downton and then was gone. Recalling the night he left, in and of itself, brought tears prickling to her eyes because when he grasped her hand in departure he could hardly meet her gaze.

That could not be their goodbye.

So it was not, so he waded into her dreams – Fog and smoke and artillery thundering all around. She dreamt of trenches and guns, mud and burnt ground, greenery flattened by foot, soldiers marching in unison...

Soon enough dreams became nightmares and it was less vague, more detailed with blood and shaking hands, whistles, guns in action, a shot to the head from enemy lines. She woke one night, soaked with sweat and heart thumping painfully – She'd seen his eyes, vivid in their blue, staring up from cold, grey skin. His blonde hair sticky with blood from the wound to his head, bruises dark on his body, chest still, breath gone, limbs lifeless. Dead. She dreamt of him dead for the first time when the war was two years in and she found this both disturbing and an accomplishment (that it had not been sooner).

She cried and woke Anna, trembling and frantically relaying the dream as if it held truth, as if it were a prediction instead of just sub-conscious torment.

"What if, Anna, what if..."

Anna led her back to bed, returned with warm tea, and Mary accepted the mug, feeling silly and juvenile but comforted.

"Why so sudden, do you think, milady?" Anna abandoned formality and sat on the edge of Mary's bed at her insistence. It felt like a kinship, just then, both of them in their flowing nightdresses, hair braided down their backs (both by Anna's hands), similarities more than differences prevalent in the moment. Anna might be the best friend in the world, had class lines not designated she call her "milady". War, though, blurred those lines and the importance was who remained and what they meant, more than their last name and dowry.

"I can't keep him from my thoughts anymore, it almost seems he's getting closer. I've kept him on the peripheral for two years but now...He's closing in, it's so foreboding, Anna." Mary's eyes grew heavy, Anna patted her hand, took the mug and did not leave until the Lady's head drooped down onto the pillow.

The heartache was contagious and Anna bore Lady Mary's that night, too.

* * *

_November 1916_

* * *

Mary returned from London, Sir Richard Carlisle fresh in her mind but so too the nightmares that followed her no matter where she slept.

Matthew was back, they said. He was coming for the benefit concert. She was expecting it on some level, for him to return, her dreams too certain of his life and existence for them to persist much longer without seeing proof of him in front of her. She hoped seeing him would bring some relief (but likely more heartache) and perhaps she could sleep easy again, although she was certain she never would until war was over. Until he was safe (why had she never written him these things?).

He was tied to Mary's mind, heart, and soul, she was certain, the way she felt his presence pressing in until he was standing on their doorstep, wearing his scarlet mess uniform.

Edith chimed in that his fianceé would be in tow.

Oh. There were so many things unfair about him bringing a fianceé that she did not know how to stop her head spinning, her cheeks flaming, her heart pumping.

Was she to be relieved about his safety and his visit to Downton, to be heartbroken that he found the time to move on with a new girl during a war, or...or to be shocked that this was it – Downton was officially lost to her. Matthew, the heir, her love, engaged to someone else, to someone that was not her and this new girl, this _stranger!_ would take her place alongside Matthew as the Countess. This was it. She was born into this family and lived hoping to maintain the family, the estate, the life that was all she knew...But as long as he married someone other than her it was gone. She did not know how she felt about that – it had been long since she accepted that Downton was Matthew's, not her own...it had been long since she felt the petty ache of fortune and estate lost because she was a woman bound to an entail...

No, Mary had grown in the years she knew Matthew...Foremost was relief, second was heartache, and brief in her Aristocratic heart was resentment of his new Queen of the county.

* * *

Lavinia was – she was fine. She was young and lovely, a petite strawberry blonde, a bit timid but Mary could not blame her, was even impressed how she held her own walking into Downton. She introduced herself to Lavinia, all charm and grace, and the girl gushed, saying she had heard all sorts about her. All good, Matthew had assured her when Mary joked. She felt a rush of affection toward Matthew as Lavinia stared at her with only excitement, only admiration. Of course he wouldn't slander her name, wouldn't share the state of their affairs to Lavinia. Perhaps because he didn't want to threaten his new relationship but Mary knew him well enough to believe his heart was just so noble that, despite any frustrations, he would only express them to her, not anyone else.

The Battle of the Somme had just ended, he shared, he was on a brief leave and would know more about where he would be next when he returned to the front.

"But you won't tell us, will you?" Mary chided, good nature and strength hiding her wavering heart.

"The fewer details, the less to worry of, I think. I don't tell my own mother anything, please don't be offended, Mary."

There was caution about him – He aimed to sound light-hearted but his eyes were too guarded, his posture too formal. He was rigid, not comfortable around her again yet...

"Not offended, Matthew, worried always, that's all." Her smile did not meet her eyes either.

Things were stiff until he offered, all boyish charm –

"I think...I'm very glad to see you looking so well."

She conceded they were friends with that, grasping his arm to prove the point, and she was sadder than ever that they had gone two years without speaking because he carried some thought that she did not consider them on good terms.

"How wasteful it's been, two years...I'm ashamed that I ever suggested I'd think so little of you not to be friends again, despite what went on between us. I was reset as soon as war was announced, I swear, slate wiped clean, only worried for you...There was never an unfriendly bone in my body, Matthew."

He bowed his head, his golden hair parted and smoothed in a formal style and he looked, perhaps, ashamed at himself, too.

"It's been confusing, the whole affair, Mary. I didn't stay away only over you – Self-preservation was part of it. And the war...The war, mostly. I don't recognize myself, fearful others wouldn't either."

He was different, she saw it. She saw it beneath the facade that was so clearly and undeniably _Matthew_, that he had changed. Two years older and it showed on his face in a way that was unfamiliar to her. His young, easy charm had faded some – he was less certain now, fidgety and awkward. The soft jaw she found so endearing before the war had tightened, chiseled his face some, and his frame was lithe; tall, broad shouldered, narrow-hipped. She hated herself for thinking the loathsome thought that war had, indeed, agreed with him. There were new lines on his face, those around his eyes when he smiled, others around his lips when he frowned, deeper ones on his forehead all the time. She would gladly trade this war-torn, thinner, mature Matthew for the boyish, softer, innocent one. For all the ways he changed on the outside, she knew there were a thousand more on the inside. It chilled her to consider that, consider their dual blackened souls.

He had always been some vision of innocence to her, some starkness, some wonderfully fair-haired, light-eyed contrast to the dark-haired, dark-eyed Pamuk who took her innocence...

It was not something she really mourned, not something she entirely believed in as a woman – the loss of purity, the sacrifice of her worthiness before marriage – but if she ever did have a doubt, there was Matthew...the light in the dark, the saviour in her sordid fairytale...He was always there, to affirm something she had lost, to look at her as so few looked at her now – Unscathed, in tact and as innocent as their relationship.

He had been to war now. Their levels of damnation were catching up and she felt a release at the thought, a sadness over the damage to his good heart but hope that someday he could understand her own missteps.

"How could I not, it's still so you."

They both looked up at the pull of Lavinia's gaze and Matthew smiled bashfully at the strawberry-blonde girl, all saccharine, looking back at Mary, again with the modest, shameful expression.

"Are you sure you don't hate me terribly?" A slight inclination of his head toward Lavinia and Mary's face fell for a moment before she settled back into curiously polite.

"Of course not! I want you to be happy. She seems perfectly,-"

"No, Mary – Thank you, but...Downton. The estate. Your life, your legacy. It bothers me most of all that marrying her will take this from you."

She nodded once in understanding, lips pressed together and lashes hiding her eyes as she looked down.

"Oh, Matthew, I lost Downton when Patrick died – When I was born even. It was never mine, however unfair that seemed. I'm a daughter, not an heiress and I mourned it when the Titantic sank and truly feel more detachment now at the loss of you."

His mouth was slack for a moment as he looked at her, realized their conversation was rather intimate for such a public setting – the concert setup, Lavinia waiting nearby – and he could only swallow heavily before speaking softly.

"That's very gracious of you, Mary." Her hand touched his arm again and they parted to take their separate seats.

Her heart was fluttering in her throat, her stomach tumbling with butterflies, and she couldn't help looking over at them, the newly minted couple, Matthew fine in his war attire, Lavinia pretty and unassuming and exactly what he deserved – someone who would carry his heart delicately. Oh Lavinia would be proud to be his, too young and sweet for dark skeletons in her closet. Even if there were some, there were probably rhyme and reason to them.

Lavinia was observant, so new in Mary's life but seemingly aware of the charged atmosphere that surrounded the two - as far as she knew - cousins. Mary's gaze pulled back as Lavinia smiled over at her and Mary bowed her head politely, feeling they each knew just who Mary was looking at. She felt it was already a problem, that she didn't know how she would stay clear of Matthew when her heart swelled so happily at the sight of him in her home again.

She imagined what it would have been like, had war not been called up as soon as they broke their relationship...What if Matthew hadn't left Downton? What if things settled and Mary had talked to him just once more...Steeled herself for the Pamuk talk and things were finally honest and plain, clear, revealed about them...The nagging fragments of her soul told her things would have turned out right for them, that fate would have had it's way and they would have had a real chance. It was hard to go on with stolen opportunities hovering over her, taunting her with what could have been. What could have been was sitting right over there.

Mary decided to write Sir Richard soon and move things along for herself. It was not as if she expected Matthew to come back after a years-long absence and they would find love again but...But perhaps she expected something. As scarred as she was there was still a naïveté about her expectations of love. But he had the chance to be happy now, with someone genuinely better than she was, someone honest and kind, who offered herself fully. Mary was never quite able to, never an entirely vulnerable or whole person to him.

Lavinia Swire would make Matthew happy and hopefully her own would be found with Sir Richard. There was hope, she thought.


	2. 1917

**I'm going to move this along quite quickly, just to get it out of my system. It's entirely finished and I'm better at oneshots, posting everything at once but this is too long for that. Please know I took liberties with time frame (though I tried to follow the canon one), house layout, as well as exactly how certain moments played out. Creative expression.**

* * *

_years ago, birds of a feather would arrive nightly_

_gone you know, held to another like clutched ivy_

_on the shore, speak to the ocean and receive silence_

_only you, only you, you know_

_- drops in the river, fleet foxes_

_Spring 1917_

* * *

Going on three years since the Great War had started, Mary wondered what she did with her life for the first two years. With Matthew coming up to the house on leave or on recruitment missions, time seemed to pass quicker and the months seemed more valuable. It got the point across, too, that Mary did not know how she had gone two years without seeing him...The long months that passed between visits now were torturous. When would he be back, would he be all right, would their mended fences remain so, when would he marry Lavinia, would he ever be free from the war...

Would the next time be the last time she'd ever see him alive?

They did not exchange letters any more frequently, for a letter seemed a place to say nice things without a whole lot of content, a placate for a Mother or a love. What could they say to each other in writing? Mary was certain their melancholy charged relationship wouldn't translate well in a letter. She wished him well each time she had seen him (it had only been a couple since the first time), offered him a luck charm in the form of a beloved toy, watched him ride off on a train...

It hit a little harder each time, he looked a little wearier each time. She wished she could bear the force of it all for them both – she hoped she offered him any comfort...even hoped that Lavinia did...

A dreary, wet spring morning brought Matthew to Downton and the house again, before Mary was really up for the day and sleepiness lingered in her eyes. The kind of morning that is too early, the light filtering in unfamiliar, for the hour is as well. The dark of night was only just waning, a comforting veil lingering in the sky that still held navy, not yet pale grey sunlight. It was not a morning that emphasized the lines on your face or grey in your hair – not an invasive morning but instead a private sort of one. Sleep still did not come to her easily and she was awake late and up early – far earlier than a Lady of the house usually is, the first of the staff had only just roused downstairs.

The nightmares were...different now that she had seen Matthew again. Fortunately, but selfishly, there was more for Mary to worry about than the war...She agonized over he and Lavinia and sometimes she dreamt of wedding dresses in blood, Matthew marrying then dying, Lavinia left alone, Mary left alone...Or just he and Lavinia happily marrying and he surviving the war and everything coming up roses, babies and inheritance. But she still classified those dreams as nightmares.

She had empathy for Lavinia and surprised even herself – no ill will toward the girl, only the greatest hopes tinged with heartache. Matthew deserved happiness and Lavinia Swire was among the sweetest people she had ever known. Perhaps her and Anna, the sweetest, most genuine women...She was in a better league for Matthew and Mary only wanted him to live for them all.

So, Mary woke early and rang for Anna but she did not come – She had stayed up nearly as late as Mary, their conversation whispered and worried (Anna had Bates on the mind and the two shared in their misery like dear friends). Mary was sure that Anna was not up yet and went wandering into the hall to look for her, to see if she was coming or if Mary could try to sleep again, forgetting of her first ring if Anna wasn't there to hear it.

"Oh!" It was she who exclaimed in surprise, finding Matthew wandering upstairs, the house still kissed with early morning's dark.

He was in full attire, hat tucked beneath his arm and a small book in his hand. He looked as tired as she felt, his skin paler than normal, eyes darkly circled and their blue jutting out.

"Hello." Was his good morning and he didn't look surprised to see her, hair curly down her back, eyes narrow with sleep, wearing layers of nightclothes. She was a spectre in the halls of Downton in her white cotton nightdress, a luxurious silk robe draped over top, both trailing behind her fancifully and billowing about her legs when she came to a pause.

"You've risen early." He spoke again and Mary couldn't quite find her polite, demure self in that moment, not sure whether to feel intimacy or invasion at his presence in her home.

Her hands shook with nerves, the kind that come from lack of sleep and the tremors that rising before the sun on a damp, cold, spring morning give you – a real feeling, one she hadn't felt since childhood and she'd stay up so late and rise so early she'd feel sick nearly every day there were school lessons. Stomach clenched, jaw tight, limbs positively quivering.

"I suppose I think it's funny you're making that remark but you're the one in my corridors before anyone is up,-"

"Your Papa is,-"

"–including the sun." She smiled as they spoke in unison and with unsteady hands she found her belt and tied the robe tightly closed, wrapping her arms across her torso.

"I borrowed a book last time...And your Papa offered I take more when I leave...It's nice to have a bit of home with me."

Her eyes softened from their harsh tired slant at the word "home" from him in reference to Downton. Oh, that warmed her cold soul.

"And I have to leave days earlier than I thought, I walked up in hopes that Carson at least would be awake." He was very focused on her face and the soft trail of hair over her shoulders – he had never seen her with it down before and how very inappropriate, she thought, suddenly aware of it.

"Carson _and _Papa it seems!"

"Cousin Robert said he wakes earlier when there's a war – an old bones force of habit." Matthew's endearing apologetic smile that he sometimes offered when he felt he was talking or revealing too much.

"Well, let's get you to the library." Her nervous trembles were no less with him following alongside and slightly behind her in the dusky morning – she, delicate femininity in her true white gown, he, strong masculinity, outfitted for war. They looked like a pair, complement and contrast; she keeping the home fires burning, he fighting to ensure that homes remained (the patriotic British war song briefly rang in her head as she thought this).

He looked tired and ashen-faced but also...bright-eyed. They were bluer than ever before in his war-weary face, the first hints of daylight glinting off them ever so, summer sky blue but also a storm coloured grey there, too.

She stood on, the library lighter than the hallways but was still cozy. Mary could not explain enough how much she loved this time of day, it was soft and comfortable and none too harsh. Sunrise was different than sunset, the shadows changed, the windows glazed with condensation from the cool, evaporating, night air. The sacred moments offered in this light were far quicker than the secrets and veil offered at night – oh, this she knew! This she knew from hurriedly carrying a dead Pamuk's body, fighting the sunrise, praying the sky to lighten slowly, staff to remain in their beds...

"I feel so young, I'm – I'm shaking, actually, to me it's an unknown time of day but so...so calm...What a promise it brings."

Mary's hands clasped behind her back, her feet in slippers, watching Matthew as he stalked the shelves, replacing the book he had borrowed and looking for another.

"A promise indeed – promise of a return to war." He did not sound offended, simply engrossed in the task at hand and war weighing heavy on his mind.

"I'm sorry, Matthew."

"No, I understand what you mean, though." He gazed at her, taking in her completely undone, vulnerable attire and swallowing with a breath. "Daybreak is the quietest at the front – it's so relieving you could cry. But far too short. It reminds me of when I was a schoolboy, enjoying those early hours with my father before work but dreading the rest of the day, as soon as the sun was up."

Matthew pulled out a book, scanned the cover and then smiled at her across the room.

"Quite like I feel now, actually." The smile was in his voice, too.

She inhaled sharply, nodding vigorously, unable to meet his eyes even through the romantically lit library. She agreed, she did – she felt no greater comfort than she did just then and her shoulders wracked as she tried to get a hold of herself. She practically floated across to him at the shelf, checking his choice and smiling to herself.

"It's a good choice – Papa's favourite, he must have suggested it?" She was level with his shoulder and she felt the air crackle with their unspoken tension, their quiet heartache over their unresolved relationship. So much lingered and yet it was hard to talk about – she only wanted him safe, how could she use these stolen moments to reflect on their doomed engagement, or to ask when he met Lavinia, how he felt about her? She couldn't, could she – Mary could only count the blessed moments among her most enjoyed, while he was home and proof before her eyes that he was alive.

"Yes, he did, I'm also keen on Palgrave's Treasury – poetry makes the days more worthwhile, sometimes."

Mary turned fully round, taking in all of the stacks, and then deciding where the book must be. Matthew watched her closely and she wondered what he was thinking, if he felt as utterly connected to her as she did to him (he did, he truly did, and his stomach was quivering as much as she was).

"Here you are. What a strange paradox, Matthew – Poetry during bloodshed. That's quite profound, really." She handed him the book and felt practically giddy at this interaction, she felt it was mischief of the most innocent sort – out of her bedroom in her nightgown, hair down and in the presence of a man. If Mary hadn't known real scandal she would have thought this was scandalous.

"Thank you. It's important to keep a bit of yourself out there – most of the time I bear no identity and am just another soldier fumbling with a rifle. Tokens from home remind me there's something besides war."

He was much more open with her this morning than he had ever been before about the war, she knew it was lucky that she hear this from him, that he share intense details of his years spent aboard fighting under the crown. Normally when she would ask she would interrupt before he could speak, answering her own question - "you won't talk about it". She had never heard him admit the hardship of it, had never even heard him mention his father before.

"I doubt you're just another fumbling soldier, Matthew – you've grown, I can tell. You're far more a man than when we first met."

"Is that such a good thing?" He quipped, eyebrows knit, lines gathering on his forehead, expression surly.

"You mean at the expense of war? No, not particularly, I just don't believe you're inept in the slightest."

"I don't mean to be harsh, Mary." His voice was quiet and deep, a murmur through the grand room. He set the books and his hat down on the desk they were nearest and then leaned against it for a moment, rubbing his eyes with two fingers.

"Don't fret," Mary said. "You're not."

Matthew then looked down at her dressing gown pooled at her feet, trying not to smile too broadly, meeting her eyes.

"I've caught you in quite the state, haven't I?"

"You have a knack for that." She felt her cheeks burn at his gaze, as if he were just really noticing how exposed he had her, pulling his gaze slowly up her body from her feet to her eyes, not their usual warm chestnut but instead so dark they were nearly black.

She moved away, backing toward the big windows, turning around once he followed.

"Rain has found us again." Said softly while pressing her nose to the window, to feel the cold fog. He chuckled when she pulled back, her nose and lips printed on the glass.

"It's a mist more than anything. A good day to travel by train." He was near her and she touched his wrist without looking at him, rubbing the material of his coat between her fingers, the scratchy wool damp from his walk, the buttons smooth against her skin. She threw caution out the window and linked their fingers together, grasping his hand as firmly as she could. Her shaking had subsided, a warmth radiating from him, comforting her.

"Back to war." Mindless, quiet words between them. His breathing was heavy and he was uncertain of what to do, she knew, but just didn't care.

The panic from when she first found him in her home was gone, the excitement and nerves had worn off and she was breathing slower, less concerned over the fact he was seeing her so early in the day and more over the fact that it meant he was leaving. Again. And nothing was resolved between them, again.

"Mary." He said finally and twisted her hand in his so that she turned to face him, back to the window, forced to look up into sky blue eyes.

Their hands fell apart but if either moved an inch they'd be touching and then Matthew grasped her upper arms, skimming them down over the silk of her robe, up again and then one slipped to hold her waist as she put both of her own against his chest.

She went up on her tiptoes, her back pressing against the glass as he moved into her, the cold and wet of the pane startling her audibly as it dampened her nightdress. He buried his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder, sighing there, hot breath on her skin, warding off the cold morning. A small flame burned within her at his touch.

"Mary, _Mary." _He whispered with so much affection that she could only clutch onto his back, fingers splayed and feeling the firm muscle beneath.

It was an embrace, perfectly innocent except their bodies were pressed too closely.

"Please, please be careful." Her voice was thick and his hand was wide on her back, sighing as he felt the silky fabric, so rich and strange to him.

Matthew stayed breathing against her and she felt his _eyelashes_ blinking against her jaw and emotion built within her, her nose prickling with the suddenness of it, tears blurring her vision.

"Matthew, please."

"I shoot men, Mary."

Her fingers gently twisted the hair at the bottom of his neck, not daring to thread through it, but she could smell it, smell him – earthen, soapy, the damp wool of his coat, and slight traces of smoke. He gasped at the intimacy of it, of her breathing in something that was definably only him, engraving him onto her heart. It was something he had only shared with her.

It was sweet, really, how he put his weight onto her and she held them both against the window, her legs pressed together and feet planted toe to toe with his own. They were chest to chest, torso to torso but any lower was respectable – he was still a gentleman, loosely defined.

"I dream you die, I dream you die nearly every night, it's why I'm awake so early." He tightened his hold on her, his other hand linking around, forgoing the casual embrace pretence and bringing her close.

"I never know what to say anymore, all I think are the darkest things and that can't possibly comfort you right now. I'll try, I will." He mumbled and she wished his lips would touch her neck.

"It's perfectly fine, I'm perfectly fine." Her tone failed to be casual, it was not easy to act like they were not wrapped up in each other as if their lives depended. She could hardly speak for lack of cohesive thought, for the dizziness swirling inside her pragmatic brain.

"_I wish this were real."_ Matthew said as he pulled his head from where it had been desperately tucked against her, eyes lidded as blue met brown (azure met amber) and he was so blonde, face so pale but she was paler – his hands against her skin showed his were painted with a tan. Matthew was far removed from both his middle class solicitor life and his aristocratic heir's life – he was a soldier travelling by foot whatever the weather. Rain, snow, sun, mud, breeze, heat, cold, humid – He was exposed to the elements now and her heart fluttered at the thought of him slumming along, brave and smart.

Her teeth grazed her bottom lip and Matthew wetted his own, both unprepared for what could happen next but also very willing. She could feel an extra beat alongside her own heart and realized it was his, hammering powerfully onto her chest.

Footsteps in the corridor, however, proved how very unreal it was and they moved apart fluidly, separating as quickly as they joined, cold moving back onto their skin where warmth had once pressed from his and her's hands. All that remained from the moment were flushed cheeks and shining eyes, parted lips and quick breath.

"Matthew, my boy, I thought you might've been lost. Mary, what on earth are you doing out here?"

Lord Grantham entered the library, fresh from breakfast, face warmed from a fire that had not yet been lit upstairs.

"You're in your nightgown, Lord! Mary?" Her Papa at least was not as suspicious of them as he should have been, although his eyebrows were furrowed, expression curious.

Mary was clever, of course, and quick.

"I ran into Matthew while looking for Anna, Papa – I rang for her, but afraid she's a bit consumed with Bates problems..."

"Right, yes, of course." Robert was noble but uncomfortable with women issues and especially that of his staff members, so he accepted the explanation and grazed by it while Matthew slowly stepped away from the window where they stood awkwardly side by side.

"Found everything you were looking for? I've called for the motor to get you to the train." Robert collected Matthew's hat and books from the desk and handed them to him as he crossed the room.

"Thank you, truly, cousin Robert." He tucked the hat beneath his arm, took the books in one big hand and then looked back to Mary.

"Let's see him off, shall we, my dear?" Robert invited Mary to join them and she felt quite childlike, floating in a strange dream, grasping her father's hand as they descended the stairs behind Matthew, she so informally dressed, among men in uniform.

Her Papa pulled open the heavy front doors and he tutted in disapproval as she walked out onto the gravel in just her slippers but she knew her father's heart swelled for Matthew, not unlike her own did, so he allowed it. He was even smiling as they stood and watched their dear cousin pull his cap on, completing his travelling solider garb.

"Godspeed, son." The Earl and heir shook hands and Matthew turned to Mary and he was looking straight at her mouth and she hoped her father didn't notice – He, of course, was just glad to see things cordial between the cousins (even if he felt pain, uncertainty over Mary losing out on Downton again).

"Stay well, Mary. Spend time with Lavinia, if you can, she adores you. My regards to sir Richard, too." Mary shook her head slightly as he spoke, wishing they could kiss, wishing their goodbye was as genuine as the moments shared in the library. Unfinished, unfulfilled moments that brought more to the surface of their relationship, brought more unspoken, unsavoury things boiling over.

"We'll keep you in our thoughts, Captain Crawley."

She tried to put herself in his eyes, as he stepped into the motor and looked back at, perhaps, his two favourite people at Downton, father and daughter, both with only his best interest at heart. Light had finally hit the house, grey and persistent, sunlight fighting through English fog and drizzle. He would tell her she looked like an angel that morning, brunette waves as her halo, shattering every notion he once had about her as she let herself outside in front of her Papa and Branson, dressed so sweetly, alluring but endearing, bare feet tucked into her slippers like some fallen princess.

The cool spring air blew through her, gowns swirling with the breeze, small raindrops clinging to her hair and shoulders. The shivers returned to her quickly and she missed the way his hands had steadied her warmly.

Things were not finished between her and Matthew, it was as clear as day (or perhaps as foggy as this day). He tipped his cap and the motor drove away with him.

"Mary, my dear, are you quite embarrassed?" Robert guided his daughter back inside, hand between her shoulders. "I didn't realize you were up or I wouldn't have let him wander."

"It's just Matthew, Papa – It feels nice to see him off properly, doesn't it? As if he's our very own soldier...Reminding him he has this to come back to. Don't you think?"

"I do. I think he's very brave."

Her father looked at her too closely now, seeing something she tried to bury down again, it was just far too near the surface after being so close to Matthew, so vulnerable and exposed, so too were her emotions – They felt raw, as if they had been teased to open back up, to let Matthew back in but were now irritated, red, angry, and gaping.

"I'm going to try sleep again. Thank you for letting me say goodbye."

Robert saw a softer girl that morning, a daughter whom he had worried would lock up at the loss of his estate, at the failure with Matthew, but he saw more out of her in those brief minutes with Matthew than he had her whole relationship with Sir Richard - Which was another worry in and of itself.

* * *

_July 1917_

* * *

By the time Matthew passed through Downton in July, the house had become a convalescent home and Mary's Granny and Aunt were plotting desperately to none so gently remove Lavinia from their lives. Mary went along, listening to stories they told her about Lavinia and Carlisle and a political scandal Lavinia had caused. She had betrayed her uncle to Carlisle to publish on and Aunt Rosamund's reasoning was that, naturally, she and sir Richard must have been lovers.

The word left a bad taste in Mary's mouth. She was certain her aunt was creating a mountain from a mole hill and Lavinia had her own reasons for her past with Richard – none which Mary was keen on nosing into. Not that she felt jealously at the idea of Lavinia and Richard, but more sympathized with the invasion of privacy that they were submitting Lavinia to. Mary wouldn't want it happening to her, in fact she would be mortified if she knew anyone, namely Matthew, was so interested in her involvement in some long past scandal. So what if Lavinia had betrayed her family because she and Carlisle were May-December lovers? That should mean that Mary was better for Matthew? It wasn't true, if anyone dug back enough in Mary's closet they would find her own Pamuk skeleton far more disturbing and far beneath what Matthew deserved. Mary couldn't possibly sell Lavinia out to Matthew in a shrewd scheme to get him to throw her over.

So, she staked a claim over her own heartache and let the information pass her by, instead spending the time getting to know Lavinia better and growing to like her more. It was impossible and unfair, to be so fond of someone who had the only person in the world she wanted. Mary didn't want for much but of course – of course it was he. She wore her heart tucked away during this whirlwind visit, afraid for tender emotions like when she saw Matthew in the spring and he had held her gently in the dawn light. No, that was inappropriate and it was too hard to come back from – too hard to know how different (better) his hand felt on her waist compared to sir Richard's. It was frustrating, even, how no release came from it, no salvation or confession, love or kiss or any peak to the torturous build that was they stripping back their layers until emotions were bared and they admitted their troubles without saying much. He just left in the spring rain and she stood childishly by her father in her nightgown.

She tingled uncomfortably when Matthew came to dinner on that round to Downton, his General along with him. Granny and her aunt expected some confrontation with Matthew and his engagement over with Lavinia and another, with her, ready by dessert. Mary thought it was tasteless but then again was not sure how much taste or integrity she had left, enthralled with another man, untruthfully (lovelessly) engaged to Richard...

Lavinia explained it all to Mary, said she was trying to protect her father and their finances, had not ever been Carlisle's lover...Mary appreciated the honesty. And frankly she knew Lavinia wasn't Richard's type – far too malleable, she thought.

There was a moment when the three of them stood together – she, Lavinia, and Matthew (back in that blood red mess uniform) – that Mary realized just how over her head she was, how integral she and Matthew were.

Lavinia spoke only sweetly, happily to Matthew and Matthew responded in equally innocent tones, asking questions about her upcoming weeks and wondering about the weather for the rest of the summer. He asked about her father, where they would travel in August, if she was looking forward to this or that...They didn't talk about the war. Not in some carefully constructed way that suggested they were avoiding the topic but Lavinia was just so pleased to be fawned over that it never occurred to her Matthew might be shaky just below the surface. Lavinia wasn't stupid or selfish or rude, just more confident in Matthew's view on the war than Matthew himself was. Mary couldn't look at him without seeing corpses and hearing thunderous gunfire but Lavinia saw an heir, a soldier, a good, strong, brave man who took the brunt of the war in stride and would come home the same man.

Mary knew him before the change, Lavinia didn't. Perhaps that would be easier for Matthew, that the younger woman wouldn't look at him for the rest of his life, with deep knowledge about how impacted he was by war.

With a polite excuse to each of them, Lavinia went to speak with cousin Isobel and they were left standing together. Truly, Mary thought if they weren't seated beside each other at dinner so often or generally left alone as much as they were, it would be easy to keep thinking of him as cousin Matthew. But they sought one another out like moths to a flame, as cautious, too, not coming into direct contact for fear of getting burned alive. They were drawn to each other, Matthew stepped out of the car that evening and spoke to Mary first, met her eyes before Lavinia's. Mary took a small amount of pride in it, mingling amongst her humiliation that no matter how much they had a bond...Lavinia had his heart. She was the clear winner and Mary was clinging desperately.

"You really have nothing to tell me about Lavinia, then? Cousin Violet and Lady Rosamund looked like vultures this evening." Matthew murmured low, toward her ear and she tilted her neck to better hear.

"Oh, don't mind them. They want the best for me and seem to think the best is you, and Downton. They've not been fair toward Lavinia because of that."

"What about Carlisle?" She couldn't tell if he was teasing or serious but answered truthfully.

"Richard's new money, new empire. That kind of thing scares Granny but she knows he has influence, power, a title...She wants that for me so she'll come round to him."

Matthew set his jaw and frowned. "Those things sound hollow from you."

"How so?" They closely resembled sparring partners now, as Mary's eyebrows rose and Matthew looked at her with accusation.

"Not a mention of love in the whole spiel – I never took you for a romantic but perhaps love should be the foundation and how important and rich Carlisle is...just perks?"

"And that's how it is for you with Lavinia? Love the base?"

Careful now, both of them reeling with tender emotions from when they last met. Perhaps Matthew felt guilt that he could gloat in the fact that she did not love Carlisle but couldn't offer the same silent satisfaction to her because he did love Lavinia...

"I do have love for her, Mary. She makes me feel..._better_..."

"What of I?" The words were a breath more than anything and, as usual, it wasn't the place or the time. He gripped her gently by the upper arm and stealthily steered her from the room, no one noticing or worried except her Grandmother. Violet knew when she was right and when her granddaughter was being stubborn, proud – this was the case then.

Matthew floundered, looking for privacy but finding fellow soldiers rehabilitating in nearly every room, so he dropped his hand from her and stood in the middle of the beds, exasperated and pleading.

"What of you? You make me feel as if I'm important, you make me feel like dreams are real but so too are consequences. You open my eyes and close them in the same beat. You were once my future and are now my past. I can't forget the war when I'm with you."

"I'm sorry for that, I suppose, but I've always tried to be realistic with you, I can't sit and tell you about the Season when all I care about is what you are doing. And I don't think...it's fair to say that we're in the past."

"Exactly, I don't know if we bring out the best or worst in one another. Lavinia's far...far simpler than all of that. And it may not be true that...that you're my past but it _has_ to be."

They were both breathing noisily and he gesticulated widely with his fingers curled around his cap, slamming it against his chest as the conservation reached it's end. He looked as if he were giving an oath, a soldier with hand to heart and she tried to close him off in that moment, accept their sad attempts at resolution and move on.

"I'm glad for you. Probably more than anyone else is, Matthew. I wish I could feel complete, is all. Like these words are getting us further from each other but they seem useless."

He was silent, aware that these stolen moments were problematic - It just over-heated each of them until they were breathless and angry, desperate and hurt.

"Maybe it'll be different...During war, each time I see you could be the last time, it puts a strain on things..." Her voice was soft now and she didn't make him forget about the war but she did make him forget of Lavinia.

Mary could not take another one of these, another drama-filled build up to nothing. They either must part forever, declare love or find level ground. All these things meant was that Matthew felt things for her but was too put off to consider dumping Lavinia for her. Why did they torture themselves?

"Is everything quite fine? You're not arguing, are you?" Lavinia, meek, small, and polite, poked her head into the room, rousing Matthew and Mary from their own dramatic world.

"Good-naturedly, if we are." Mary smiled, brushing past Matthew and putting a hand on Lavinia's arm to guide her out.

This would be when Lavinia's suspicions first awoke. She knew nothing of Mary and Matthew, the couple, only heard delightful stories of Mary and Matthew, the cousins. But there was evidently much, much more to that. They squirrelled away privately as if there wasn't a house full of people and then shouted like teenagers. It was bizarre behaviour and she hardly recognized Matthew when he went around Mary...he sparked and crackled and even his eyes shone differently...

Lavinia would confess this all to Mary on a day she was feeling silly about it, on a day she was more reassured about her engagement to Matthew, pleased with the boundaries the cousins were now edging along. They were nothing more than friendly, although Lavinia noticed it best when Sir Richard was around. Mary was fearful of doing wrong by him and was careful not to sit by Matthew at dinner.

As they saw Matthew and the General off in the driveway, Matthew took Lavinia's hand and kissed it softly, telling her to be safe if he did not see her again before he returned to the front. Mary was beside Lavinia and he looked to her, his voice deeper than it was just a second before and murmured "you too". Mary smiled and felt her breath catch and wished he hadn't put her and Lavinia on the same level. It was okay to wish your fiancée to be safe but including her in the warm moment made her wary.

But when Matthew left, again, Mary felt better settled. She felt defeated and forlorn but...breath came easier and the fact they did not touch this visit helped to clear her head. It was possible to stay apart and it was necessary. It wasn't just their own dumb hearts on the line, they had involved two other people and their games would exhaust them all. All bets were off with Matthew, finally, and she was out of her one-track mind for a few months. She became involved in the duties of running the convalescent home, she spent time with Lavinia and had a friendship with the lovely Swire girl. Her grandmother and Aunt Rosamund gave up their head hunt for Lavinia and Mary knew they wanted her well-being but she wanted Matthew's and it lied within Lavinia.

She felt more well-rounded and on stable ground, but it wasn't to be ignored, that the place in her life where Matthew had been was now gaping and she had to work too hard to fill it in.

The months passed smoothly until the next time they met and war crawled under his skin, lurked in his face, beat in his heart - They all felt it more heavily than ever.


	3. 1918 I

**Me again. Thank you for the reviews and PMs, as well as those following this story. I'm going at this a bit blind, just wading into uncharted series two territory. It's angsty and dramatic but a long exploration of these two. **

**Also, still with the liberties on layout, content, timeline, sort of thing - I wrote this assuming Mary's already spilled to Carlisle and she is indeed engaged to him - Mostly just to quicken the story along. I fumbled a bit with it but it's not perfectly canon, this would be an AU element arising. ****Next I hope to bring up a conversation between Mary and Lavinia, sort of putting to rest Lavinia being blind to Mary & Matthew. I'd love to hear criticisms and where I should end it off - Probably unhappily knowing me haha! Getting more excited for series three by the day!**

* * *

_you hesitate, so my memory fades_

_i'll hold to the first one_

_"i wouldn't turn to another", you say, on the long night we've made_

_let it go_

_only you, only you, you know_

_- drops in the river, fleet foxes_

* * *

_March 1918_

* * *

England was green again, the hills rolling in rebirth and raindrops. Summer had come and gone, a cold winter had, too. March had shown little sun as it approached April and it was a dreary spring as they had not had in years. The lawns were a dull colour, grass sprouting but flood spots on the property were more obvious. Taking walks was a messy chore through the mud, as the ground unthawed, although Mary enjoyed the rare day she could ride through. There was something liberating about abandoning propriety and coming back mud-flecked with wind-burned cheeks. Riding was something of a luxury now, fewer people to care for the horses and less time for it but there was nothing that enlivened her heart more than stampeding through the woods. Lady Mary had never tasted freedom but she imagined it would be like that, soaring through the air on jumps, stomach flying, heart racing, eyes wide and happy. She missed it when she couldn't do it, wondered if her feet would soon grow into the floorboards of their grand house, so very trapped was she through the winter months.

There was more to fill the days with now that the home was convalescent and although Mary was not as involved as Sybil, she did _try_. Richard mocked her mercilessly, making note she wasn't much of a caretaker or very domestic and he could not possibly imagine her tending to the wounded and recovering. She wondered very much why he even wanted to marry her and couldn't picture having children with him, if he thought her so incompetent!

He wore on her nerves but also hurt her feelings and she did not blame Richard for the poor match they were...She latched onto him for the wrong reasons, too, could admit that she was initially attracted to his strong personality and sharp mind but she sold her soul to him with her Pamuk story and now they were uneven. Richard once spoke that she the Lady was so on another level than he and him helping her bury the Pamuk scandal levelled them...she disagreed. No class, charm, or aristocracy that she brought to the marriage could make them fair partners. He held it so far above her head, waving it around as his attack flag should anything go wrong. She was thankful for his help but did not believe it healthy for he to have so much collateral on her. He was a power hungry man and could not separate it from their relationship.

So, in the months that Downton was a hospital of sorts, Richard did not come through as often. It was a relief, more than anything. Mary knew she must marry and leave and start a prestigious estate of her own but she was so very unprepared. She knew her place in life but could not quite accept it, she knew who she should be and how she should live but sometimes the way Sybil rebelled made Mary think...

Maybe she could runaway, live her life as a single woman travelling the world and documenting her journeys. Heaven knows Mary needed a purpose and could not find it within Carlisle, did not know it outside of Downton.

There was also the persistent thought of how unfair things had been in the years since Kemal Pamuk had died within their walls – in her bed...Had that secret not loomed, she would have been married to Matthew years ago...It was her mistake, her unfortunate situation but the sacrifices she made to make herself appear pure and desirable to other men looking to court were stacking up and when was enough, enough? When was everything she gave up in the face of her scandal more than the scandal itself? Was marrying Richard it? Was that the break point – would marrying Richard hurt her more than the Pamuk scandal coming out would?

If Matthew only knew, she thought, she could bear the onslaught of the newspapers and gossipers. She could bear the way her Papa would look at her perhaps, even her darling younger sister Sybil – but what of Matthew? What of the rest of the house, Carson even? Her family would never abandon her, she knew, but the people who were supposed to be divided by class from her...they had every reason to judge her if they knew. She deserved the judgement in some ways but the more years that passed from Pamuk, the more she felt a feminist fire burn within her.

She did not deserve to hang for what happened when she was so young and he, had he lived, would never have had the concern of scandal. Some days she thought she could scream at the frustration, how it felt as it built within her. She was bound to Richard and only coming to terms with why she was bound to him would break it – If only she could accept it, straighten her back and brave the storm she would be..._free_...

Mary was not there yet.

Then, there were instances when Mary could not complain about her life at all. She was the eldest daughter of an aristocratic family who suffered little hardship. She had parents alive and well, and she was not at war...not suffering loss of limb or blindness or death. When Mary had these thoughts she knew she just, she would just marry Richard and settle for a life much easier and better than the life of many, many people. Oh she was the ruler of her own mistakes, the hand that dealt the cards and she would try to quiet the childish voice within her that considered losing Matthew such a suffrage. She would try to settle and lose the appetite for freedom.

Perhaps this was growing up. Although she knew just trying meant nothing, did not mean she would suddenly stop dreaming of blue eyes, dead, or feel warm relief wash over when she knew he was surviving the war.

She was startled the first time she saw injured soldiers come through with frostbite after the cold winter at the front. It was a minor injury compared to some of the rest but sometimes they could not walk properly and Clarkson would not know if toes, fingers, hands, feet, or ears would need amputated for months and months so they went on as best they could, hoping to ward off gangrene. She stood, mouth agape, as she watched Sybil touch the blackened skin, testing the amount of damage to it as days went on. It was hard to watch but also such a mark of humanity, such physical evidence of the war going on that Mary felt gratified at the experience of just watching.

They decided to throw a concert for spirit lifting of sorts in the spring, when the upset of a winter at war had passed (many injured and freezing soldiers meant for overflowing rooms) and Mary involved herself in the planning as much as she could. She was still a Lady, though, she was still sometimes selfish and annoyed at the loss of her privacy and perhaps even her sanity, she did not know. It was hard, sometimes, not to be on edge when she thought of Matthew. It came and went but she was on pins and needles more often than not.

Edith told her that Matthew and William Mason were missing in action.

Less pins and needles and more her heart plummeting through her stomach to the floor, leaving her cold and faint.

She sang at the concert anyway, at her father's insistence that it was important for morale. This she knew, she did, but she felt sick and was normally very good at putting on a brave face when she felt her insides shuddering but when it came to Matthew in danger – missing in action – potentially lay splayed out bloody on a field – she found it difficult. Edith played piano, Mary stared out at all of the recovering soldiers that her family had opened their home to – of course with persuading but she still felt like they were contributing in some way, even the smallest, to the war effort – and she sang, her voice smaller than normal.

"_We could go on loving in the same old way..."_

Mary saw him first, of course she did, and her voice wavered, the words dying on her lips and her eyes widened, breath stilled.

"Thank God." A benediction as she realized she was really seeing him.

Her Papa noticed him and the rest of the crowd did as well and he looked untouched, he looked in one piece and William was too, behind him – The joy was palpable between Crawleys and the staff alike.

He was in the khaki uniform and held his hat in his hand, his hair smoothed back and his eyes reaching all the way to where she stood. Dumbfounded, she was stricken and relieved and her legs wobbled. He looked at her after he shook her Papa's hand and walked toward her and she let out a breath finally.

"Come on, don't stop for me."

Matthew walked up the aisle cleared between chairs and she briefly thought if this were a romance novel she would run toward him and he'd open his arms and swing her around while she cried with relief and then war would magically be over.

_Not a romance novel_ but it was romantic, lovely when he picked up the song and sang sweetly as he stood alongside her facing the crowd. With a hesitant step and swallow of emotion she joined in and the crowd helped them finish out the song.

She could only stare at him even as applause scattered around and he smiled, looking perfectly at ease, while she was a bundle of nerves at his side, afraid it was written all over her face. It was Matthew and he was well and safe and back home. Oh she only wished he was here to stay.

* * *

"Please stay tonight, won't you?" He had told them what happened, caught behind German troops for three days, and hoped he hadn't worried them too sick. Her Papa said something about their hero at the front and she could only bend her head as she realized she was not the only one with such a shine to Matthew.

He said he would go to see Lavinia since Cousin Isobel was not in Downton and it struck Mary that it'd be months again before they would see him again..._each time could be the last time..._

"You can't travel to see Lavinia tonight and shouldn't go home to an empty house after this struggle! Unless you'd like to be on your own, but if not, please stay."

Matthew's daybreak blue eyes were not something she ever got over. So much of him was familiar to her, the way she could tell if he shaved too quickly by the little cuts underneath his jaw, or the way she knew he was not sleeping by the hollowness around his eyes that made the blue stand out even plainer. The way he smelled was familiar, the way he stood and smiled bashful smiles, but his eyes were the most pleasant surprise each and every time. As robbed as she knew he was of good feelings since the war, she wouldn't believe it if she just looked at his eyes. She grieved for the gentler man he was before the war, the one who read books and was a kind-hearted lawyer – she was glad his eyes did not carry the haunt (at least not yet).

"I would like to, actually. Not to impose but because I'm dead on my feet and my bag is already here..." He did look weary.

"I'll speak with Papa. Since you're his favourite I'm sure it will be no problem. You've never stayed here, Matthew! Such a chance to get acquainted with your future home."

"Thank you, Mary. And I really don't want to be on my own tonight, no. Mother not at the house would feel...bizarre, I think..."

He looked young and earnest, a Mother's boy if there ever was one. It was the sweetest, most innocuous thing that gave her pause for a moment, she pressed her hand against his arm, fingers briefly touching the skin at his wrist, feeling his pulse thrum hard and she nodded reassuringly.

"You're here and you're fine. Safe – and – sound."

Matthew ducked his head, teeth on his bottom lip and they parted ways for the moment.

Mary sought out her father in the aftermath of the concert and instead found Edith.

"I know you were upset when he was missing but you always look at him as if you like him so much. He's Cousin Matthew again, Mary."

Rather than fight with her Mary just sighed.

"I do like him so much, Edith. He _is_ our cousin, it's fine to like him. You should try it, try liking anyone. I don't want to fight, I just can't help feeling relieved, you can't hold that against me, really."

"I suppose not." Edith relented, not wanting to instigate, just uncomfortable with the kind of expression from Mary that she looked at Matthew with. It was as if everyone could sense they were in far too deep by then and quietly tried to talk them down.

* * *

After a happy dinner Matthew excused himself from taking port with the other men and asked Mary to his room, just looking forward to a night's sleep, he said.

She and Anna took him to one of the rare unoccupied rooms in Downton, a bright room with white drapes and blue walls, a large bed and light furniture.

"This room reminds me of vacations at the coast – there's a hotel with this lovely white bureau I wish went along with my room." Mary opened the door and let Anna and Matthew enter, standing modestly at the threshold.

Anna pulled the drapes, stoked the fire and excused herself to Matthew who stood in the middle of the room, bag still clutched in hand, looking awkward in his heavy combat boots.

"Thank you, Anna," A mumble as he looked around the room.

"I'll leave you, too, Matthew. Please sleep well."

"Are you turning in?"

Mary smiled, hand on the doorknob and bashful as he dropped his bag, and stooped to unlace his boots.

"Oh no, a bit early for me – I need a little more dark in the sky, I'm afraid. But glad we can offer a reprieve from war for you tonight."

"Thank you. And perhaps I'll run into you later...My sleep habits aren't the best right now, either. I'm too awake in the dead of night – you can't see through the black at the front and you jump at everything, trigger happy. Easy to go back to that place."

In sock feet he crossed the room and she had eased to the other side of the door, and from separate sides, they said goodnight again and Mary could not help her traitorous heartbeat.

"I'm glad to be here again."

"I'm glad to have you. We're glad."

He closed the door and Mary backed away, hands clasped in front of her.

"Mary, come along." It was her Mother behind her and she sighed, rolling her eyes, feeling juvenile and immature but not needing chastised again that night for her attachment to Matthew.

"He's just settling in, Mama." She snapped over her shoulder as they walked from the hall.

"I'm very glad, I only ask you come away because we still have company and he could use his rest. Don't be so defensive, darling."

"Oh Mama, I'm sorry. I just worry everyone is always watching for heartbreak written in my flesh or something theatrical every time he comes home."

Her mother grasped her hand before they rejoined what remained of their dinner guests who were conversing now.

"I think we all just know it is a sensitive issue and are all very glad when he comes back unharmed...So you must be quite especially glad, even if there is Sir Richard now, first there was Matthew."

Fair enough.

* * *

Mary sat at her vanity as Anna untied her hair and worked her hands gracefully through it, pulling at tangles as she brushed it out and long down her back. It was wavy from a day spent tucked up and under and Mary smiled at her reflection, fond for her long hair even if it wasn't tradition to wear it undone at her age.

"I saw Mr. Crawley leaving his room earlier and he was outside with Thomas of all people when I came up."

"What? Matthew?" Mary's eyebrows rose as she rubbed lotion up her hands and elbows.

"Yes. Smoking, actually, I think."

"Anna, will you get my coat?"

"Are you sure milady?"

"Yes." Mary stood and tightened the ties on her nightgown, pulling on her mauve coat with velvet collar and belted waist that Anna offered her over both garments.

Anna took her to the front door and very well she could see Matthew and Thomas stood in the gravel drive, puffs of smoke hovering around them every so often. Thomas had stamped his cigarette out in the gravel and tipped his cap to Matthew before turning to the doors, giving Mary the chance to come through them without interrupting their conversation.

"Hello," She greeted, the doors noisily opening drawing Matthew's attention. "Just making certain everything is fine – Thomas is there any trouble tonight, any issues with the convalescent men?"

"Erm, no milady. Fancied a late night puff." He bid goodnight to Mary, too, and followed Anna inside.

"I didn't know you and Thomas were friends."

"You make bonds in war, I suppose. What are you doing up? You look ready for spring in that colour."

"Anna said she saw you outside, I was worried. I'm not sure what shell shock is like but thought perhaps you were upset."

Matthew was still smoking his own cigarette and Mary was looking at a very different man from the one she said goodnight to earlier. His hair was flopping across his forehead, no longer smoothed and styled but instead ruffled and clean, still a bit damp. He wore his uniform mostly, except donned slide-on loafers instead of his boobs. His coat was not done up and his pants hung loose without a belt, as he clearly had slept but awoke to satisfy his craving. He wore a white cotton shirt beneath the undone wool uniform and it was so simple compared to his complicated war attire that she felt it in her throat – the longing for Matthew just in a short-sleeved shirt, relaxed in their home and hers to admire.

"I don't have shell shock, Mary, at least not yet. Or not as bad as some of the men. I saw the strongest soldiers crumble at a command after the Battle of the Somme. Panicked, some would be paralyzed at the next round of gunfight and couldn't shoot. Some tried to flee. All could lead to crime of cowardice."

"How cruel, punished for reacting to a war they didn't start...Any human would be altered, wouldn't they? What about you, Matthew, how does it get you?"

"Mostly what I said before. I can't sleep through the night, I can't sleep when the sky is black. My heart will race and I can't breathe, not being able to see – you don't know who or what is lurking, about to pounce." He took a long drag from the cigarette and the ash grew long before he flicked it, the wind catching before it could reach the ground.

"That's reasonable. Papa's valet Lang had it terribly, you met him, I think. It's bone-chilling."

"Yes," He blew smoke out in wide rings. "It is."

Oh of course Matthew could make something as ordinary as smoking look graceful. It wasn't some common habit among the staff just then, it looked absolutely pleasant and calming and Mary felt no doubt at him smoking. He inhaled sharply and then let the smoke out slowly and she was mesmerised when he blew out another series of circles.

"And smoking, it's gotten you that way I see."

"Sometimes. Camaraderie mostly but it's a calming habit just before another battle. Do you mind it?" He stepped toward her and there was something in his tone, something deep, as if they were a couple of teenagers rebelling and flirting.

"No, Papa always takes his cigars, cigarettes can't be much different. I don't mind it on you, at least."

He tilted his head back and sent rings from his lips toward the sky and she tipped her own face up to watch them contrast the velvety dark.

"How is it we keep finding ourselves tucked away from everyone else? Why is it?"

"Must we really rehash all of that?" Mary sighed, her hair brushing her cheeks as she turned her head away. She felt so out of place, so like a caricature of herself, stood outside in her nightgown, her favourite coat on to maintain modesty. It was the second time Matthew had seen her undone and she knew – she knew she asked for it, knew that she sought him out this time and so much for trying to keep him at length. It was, in a word, impossible.

"Not all, I just can't quite understand why we're so...attached," Ah, the theme of the evening for Mary and Matthew noticed. "You see it too, I can tell."

"Well, I suppose we...You proposed and we realized we very much...we liked each other and had a bond and...I loved you, Matthew. Then Mama's tragedy and you took it all back, you did, you can't say you didn't, but it was my fault too for taking poor advice. Then war and you left, you left so soon and it all ended between us...too quickly to move on..."

"Ended? I hardly think it began."

"See, that's the difference in us – back then your whole view on me changed but I was in deep with you, Matthew."

He jutted his chin out and looked at her very matter-of-factly.

"It's changed again, you know, you're softer now – I get glimpses beneath that cover more often."

"Hmm, most people don't think it's a cover. They think it's just I, the cold and calculating Lady Mary Crawley, as Richard once put it." She tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled, self-deprecating.

Matthew was a rumpled boy just then, his uniform wrinkly and ill-fitting, but he looked stronger than she, tall and smoking and protective.

"Charming, Carlisle! I can only wonder what his proposal was like." Another puff and then he stamped the butt out and it did not have quite the impact in his casual loafers as it might have in boots.

"Oh it was more a proposition, not on one knee or anything. He remarked on our strengths as a partnership and he could talk of love and June and the moon if I'd like but we were more important than that..."

"A business venture!" Matthew laughed humourlessly and she could not quite meet his eyes.

"Much different than when you proposed. No sandwich and wine on his lips...your eyes were closed, do you remember? Sitting at the table tucked into my neck."

His laugh was warmer now and she could see the very top of his chest, sparse hairs against the white shirt, blonde stubble growing on his face where he had not shaved for days.

"I do remember, half mumbled against your mouth. We were so young! That was quite graceless too, I shouldn't chide Carlisle."

"He practically asks for it, it's fine."

"It's not fair we talk of Sir Richard like this...it's not fair to you to have me tear down the man you're engaged to, I apologize."

"Well it just shows our choices, doesn't it. I couldn't find a harsh word to say about Lavinia even if I wanted. You're far more honourable than me in love and engagements, I think."

He moved closer so that his face was hidden in shadow, where the light filtering through the windows in the door had just been illuminating it. She could not see any of his features, just knew he was looming taller than her and there was some dark shift between them to match his dark face.

"Why are you with him, Mary?" And he was quiet and close, so much so she forgot herself for a moment and could have spilled it all right then and there.

"I, he...You _are_ crossing a line now, Matthew. I'm with him to marry him."

"Because you're so in love, of course, I forgot."

"Don't argue with me on it, please. I admit we haven't had the cleanest break and I felt sick with worry when I learned you were missing but – We don't get to question each other on this. It's not going to be us so it has to be someone!"

"I don't disagree with that Mary, just of everyone...why him?"

"Because of everyone he'll have me!"

Matthew was calm and steady whereas Mary was hurtling toward uncontrolled. She tried to keep her voice down but it rose to a shout and crackled inelegantly with tears.

"I've struck a chord. There's something you're not telling me." Pale light from the window gleamed over his face again and he looked sly for a moment, pleased with himself for uncovering whatever it was that made Mary so unsettled but then he frowned – he was not happy that there was something that upset her so.

"No." She quavered, putting her hands on her hips in tight fists and trying to look ferocious. She hated to cry, she hated an audience when she cried and if she could talk herself into anger instead of heartbreak she might be okay.

"Yes." Matthew spoke purposefully, his mouth holding the shape of the word and his eyebrows raised. He resembled...she did not know, someone clever and scheming, someone who knew how to lure her in, how he looked with his forehead creased and his eyes searching.

He stepped closer. Mary smelled the cigarette smoke on him but also the remnants of his bath, the musky soap that clung to his skin and damp hair.

"There's no sense in telling you because it's my cross to bear. It would only harm what we have left between us, you'd only hate me and I can't...lose you entirely."

"My god, Mary, what is it? Carlisle must know...whatever it is, that's bound you to him, hasn't it? You can trust me, you must see that." He took her hand between both of his own and his were cool to the touch, her palms burning hot from the fists they were clenched in.

"I should have told you when we could have been together. It won't do any good anymore, you've someone else and it will just tarnish me forever."

"We keep dancing around this, don't we? Should we say it – That we're unfinished? That I – We still have feelings..."

"_No."_ A plead on her tongue and his eyes were heavy, weariness not wholly evading them, and they were hooded and swirling as he looked down at her, so very close, their hands clasped together between them.

They kept...they constantly found themselves back here and it...it wasn't fair when he touched her because everything else they had said crashed down around them and words meant little, only touch and feel mattered...She could plead no all she wanted, could argue that it was no good for them to go back here but her head was so light when he was so close, her eyelids fluttered and her mouth fell open as her breathing sped.

No longer in the view of the doors, instead pressed hidden into a corner along the wall of the house, Matthew took a final stride until she was against the stone and bent down, catching her lips in his own with a gasp from her. He shifted, his arm tight around her lower back and lifted her slightly to better access her mouth and it was unlike they had kissed before. It was laden with tension, emotions heavy between them, breath gone before they'd even met and so they broke away frequently to pant against the other's neck, lips running there instead.

It was very, very wrong.

Mary's head was swimming and dizzy, her hands beneath his open coat, feeling his neck and bare arms, desperate at the warmth of his skin against her fingers. The stone of the house was rough against her back and was hard through her layers of coat and gown and so she moved more against him, finding the heat and planes of his body more pleasing against her.

Matthew's hand lay on her long neck and he stroked his fingers from jaw to collarbone, his lips lingering over her racing pulse as she sighed gently. How she wished they were inside under the light so she could see his face as he touched her, all innocent strokes and murmuring lips. How she wished there were fewer of these cloak and dagger moments between them and that they rightfully belonged together. It did not matter if love remained, if they truly wanted to be with each other – if anyone saw them, if anyone found out it would be scoffed and scandal, the likes of which Mary had known before.

And they themselves should have some shame in the situation, should feel guilt for so gladly kissing, touching, sighing in the cover of night.

His hand brushed down her body, across her chest, grasping her waist before resting lightly on her hip – she gasped and Matthew deepened the kiss, tugging her bottom lip gently. Mary was on her tiptoes, most of her weight in his arms, holding her just slightly from the ground. She hooked one leg behind his own and stretched on her toes on the other, her foot gliding from his ankle up his calf.

Their mouths melded together, noses brushing, her chin and lips tingling with the burn of his stubble rubbing against her mouth. He tasted of wine and cigarette, a citrus flavour lingering on his tongue. There was nothing unpleasant about any of it. It was rightly Matthew and who they were to each other seemed to spin on even if they wished it to stop.

Matthew broke the deep kiss and Mary's stomach burned and clenched. She lurched forward slightly as he pulled back so suddenly and a sob escaped her mouth as Matthew moaned warmly. She uncurled her leg from his and he loosened his hold on her, lowering her back flat on her feet. His breath was still coming heavy and he tangled his hands through her wavy hair, making another noise of desire as Mary's cheeks grew wetter.

She could see his throat working hard through the shadows, swallowing and trying to right himself, acknowledge she was upset although his body was still humming with want, she could feel it.

"Mary, Mary, my dear." She clutched her arms around his waist, still under his coat and she could feel him so close, so warm through his thin shirt and he brought both of his hands up to her face, thumbs smoothing over her wet, tear-stained cheeks.

They stayed like that, faces flushed, breathing laboured, lips red, Matthew wiping her tears away as quickly as they came, Mary clinging tightly at his waist.

"Everything wrong in my life is my fault," Her voice broke with tears as she shakily spoke. "And you have someone who loves you and this can't happen again, it's really over."

"If you only told me everything that's wrong we could right it _together." _He stroked his thumb over her lips, then his hands up and down her arms.

"We had our chance. Matthew, you have,-"

"Lavinia." He said gruffly as if remembering her name. "She deserves better than me."

"And what, we deserve each other because we're willing to forget the people we're committed to? If anything that's a worse reason to be together. She loves you, I don't,-"

"Don't you?" Matthew searched her face and she sighed, gliding her fingers along his tightened jaw, the one she took as his mark into manhood, then up through his hair, the blonde locks that were soft and messy across his forehead.

She certainly did.

"I don't think you need to hear of all the women who love you, Captain Crawley."

His eyes glinted with a younger boy's playfulness and with her hand in his hair, he held onto her back, tucking his fingers into the fold of her belt to bring her closer.

"I love you," Matthew whispered, all crackling honesty. "You deserve to hear of all the men who love you, Lady Mary."

Her eyes crinkled with her broad smile, and her cheeks were tight with dry, salty tears.

"Please, let's leave it at this, Matthew."

He rested his chin atop her head, slowly his breathing.

"We will. It's left at this."

"I just need a moment, I just need a moment." Mary muttered over and over until her eyes no longer stung with tears, her chest was no longer painful with sobs, and she could let go of him without feeling it too badly.

It felt like a rebirth for them, born again in the springtime and fresh starts were to abound. It was the goodbye they should have had before he left for war, it was the unsaid things that had lingered for three years and perhaps they were immoral people, perhaps it was unfaithful to their respective better and not-so-better halves – But it was also necessary for either of them to find their bearings, feel the ground beneath their feet again. Mary felt it would have happened eventually, and it had to be this night, of course, when he had been missing and her heart had trained on him. She believed that perhaps she could go on now, knowing that it was mutual, knowing they both carried regret and love. She did not feel as it was betrayal (though her conscience would sometimes nag) to put her gaping heart to rest, finally. They'd start again anew, blinders off.

Perhaps the misery loves company adage shouldn't have proved so calming to her but to know that Matthew had his own longing, eased her from their hazy, selfish theatrics. It would be okay, it would be bearable so long as they stayed on their own paths.

It was something to marvel, who she was when they first met and who she was now. If nothing else, in the time between Pamuk and Matthew, she had grown...he was more a man and she finally felt like she could be a woman. If only she could have some control over her life, her future...it was all she hoped for since before her engagement to Patrick – how nice it must be to own your own days, your own heart. Carlisle was not the best for her freedom but he was the best for her welcoming a new life, one shed of Matthew Crawley and Downton's ghosts. She must at least try. Even if he did not hold her heart, at least she knew Lavinia did not hold Matthew's, either.

But, Mary knew, Lavinia was more apart of Matthew than he would let on, as certain as he was that he loved Mary – and he did – he loved the potential the younger woman offered, the idea of separation from Downton – a life somewhere different, somewhere easier. He was not lying when he said before that Lavinia was much simpler than she was...If he only knew! If he only knew of Pamuk and the weight of his dead body that she carried on her back these long years.

Oh, those thoughts of...rising up and being strong, taking Carlisle and carefully tucking Matthew away, embracing them as family once more were ideal. Truly. But there was nothing more disheartening than Matthew disappearing for warfare, nothing that clenched her heart in a cold grip tighter...Forget your pride, forget your honour and purity, she often begged herself...maybe he could simply be her's if they both dug up her skeleton for all to see.

"Here, wait." The light shone golden onto the driveway as they emerged from their dark little nook and Matthew straightened her coat, smoothed her hair and pointed out her red nose and chin.

"I fear scruff is not best worn on me."

She smiled, her skin tender and she flipped over his lapel.

"I'll see you in the morning." And she was back to Lady Mary, her voice honey and velvet again.

Intentions and actions were all the difference in the world.


	4. 1918 II

__**As promised, Lavinia centered chapter. Thanks for the messages and everything else once again. And - apologies for the changed time frame - Mary coming clean to Richard about Pamuk before Matthew returns injured...Just took liberties, as I said. A couple of more chapters to wrap it up, hopefully!**

* * *

_1918 (II)_

* * *

Matthew left in the morning but not before they took breakfast together – Mary, Matthew, and Robert. Sybil had worked the night at the hospital, while her Mama and Edith were not yet up. Normally Mary wouldn't be either but the presence of Matthew asleep in the house was too much to bear, too thick and tangible to sleep through. He clung to her long after they parted, her chin was pink from his scruffy kisses and her hair was tangled from his fingers through it – she liked to think that she smelled like him, too, that his smoking and fresh bath had embedded in the fabric of her coat, she really thought she could smell him on it. Because, if that was truly a goodbye, it would be nice to have some small memory of it – to get her through the war, to get her through their engagements.

And yes, it was goodbye, in the sense that they couldn't twine around one another anymore and they couldn't do their hurtful dance...But he had said he loved her. He said it, a sentence, "I love you", she had never heard it from a man other than her Papa (and perhaps Carson when she was very little, she couldn't quite recall) and she knew it now more truly than when he proposed that summer's day. She felt loved, she felt glad knowing it came from his mouth to her ears – it was goodbye but it was love and there was a small part of the former Lady Mary that remained...so satisfied was she that he had uttered it but she had not. She held onto the tiniest shred of dignity by not laying it out in words like he had, if you could have any while kissing another woman's fiancé (you couldn't).

It was a strange arrangement, her and Matthew sat side by side at the breakfast table, her father at the head of it, buried in his paper – the paper's were much more interesting now there was a war and she knew this because Sir Richard thrived on the hundreds of stories there were to print – almost as if they were a family in the proper sense. Sure, it was nice to imagine they were married but she felt almost like he was her sibling just then, the way they giggled in her father's presence. She smiled as Matthew ate his heavily buttered toast and he chuckled at her drinking orange juice from a fine crystal flute.

"What! It may be breakfast but I'm still a Lady." She joked and Matthew laughed openly, coughing on a crumb and she was glad he still had it in him – a little bit of life, even though he sat dressed for war.

Her father raised an eyebrow, ruffling his paper.

"Oh I know it, Mary. You could make finery out of dung, I'm sure." Matthew was wicked that morning, his laughs louder and his language a little off colour.

"Let us only hope, Matthew, I am marrying Richard."

"Mary!" Robert did not look angry, just surprised at his daughter's open sense of humour, both eyebrows raised now and a little smile sharing in the joke. "My dear I'm glad you save this kind of talk for our company only but do tread careful."

"Sorry Papa, just cousins laughing." They finished their breakfast and Mary was happy they had found their closure but there was the familiar sting of what could have been...Breakfast time with Matthew, what a simple pleasure.

He bade farewell to the wounded and recovering shoulders convening in all corners of the house, taking well wishes from the ones he was more friendly with and shaking hands. There was genuine empathy for them and he asked a few to write him, to let him know how their recovery went, some injuries so ghastly, he said, he was so proud of how they were healing.

Matthew was a good man.

Mary met up with him on the way out the door.

"Tell me, what do you miss most when you're gone?"

"Music, I think. You can't carry a melody in your head at war. I just forget it. To sing with you was so nice, Mary! I'm not much of one but it's all the comfort I needed." He smiled and pulled his cap on and she thought he looked sweet, a bit like a boy in his father's work clothes – the cap just a little too large for his head, his eyes bright from under it, earnest, searching.

"Lead the men in a rousing round!" Mary smiled and Matthew was so at ease with her that she hated they went two years without dealing with things. It was nice to be friends again – really friends and not like when he first came back in 1916.

"Until we meet again, Mary." He took her hand as if in a handshake but just held her fingertips in his grasp. He wore brown leather gloves and they felt nice on her skin.

"I can't...it sounds so hollow now to ask you to please be safe or to be careful but I do hope it for you – safety and luck, Matthew. Say hello to Lavinia!" She wasn't sure if it was appropriate for her to say so but their polite pleasantries had to be restored after the landslide of emotion that was the night before.

He left through the doors with Robert, who was privy to their exchange from where he waited, and Mary was glad she didn't have to see Matthew drive away again, she was better off inside.

Her heart felt better and beat in one piece again. She was happy to be so carefree with Matthew, friendly but it remained he was leaving again – at least, though, she knew it wasn't straight to war. He was off to see Lavinia and that was...it was important and necessary.

* * *

Mary took stock of her life. She felt satisfied, she thought, with the things she had settled. She had settled with Matthew after admittedly agonizing angst between them. It was all laid out and it was over – it was, as she recalled, a rebirth and reawakening and now she could focus fully on Carlisle. She had given her life rights to him in the face of Bates' wife and her threats and the Pamuk story she sold to Carlisle...that cemented their engagement. She was sent off into life as an engaged woman fresh and new, broken (finally) with Matthew and their torment pushed aside.

Avoiding the scandal coming out was a relief, even if it was difficult to muster the enthusiasm she should have had for Richard – she was grateful, she was. Her life remained peaceful, at least in that area. She could breathe easier knowing that...even if he was short-tempered man, one whom believed himself wiser and more clever than she...he was at least trustworthy. He at least wanted their marriage to come through so badly that he paid off a woman of little importance to anyone and sat quietly atop Mary's dirty secret. That had to mean something, didn't it? That even if he wasn't the most dignified man, that he did put his head on the line for her – Of course he could cut the cord whenever he saw fit but...he hadn't, yet. And if Mary could push Matthew from her thoughts for three seconds perhaps Carlisle's jealousy would subside and it would stop lingering over head like the blade about to fall. If there was nothing to provoke Richard with he would calm and they would be...their own form of happy.

And so it went. At least for now being with Carlisle was indeed worth it over the scandal coming out. The scale had not tipped yet, she considered what she gave up to preserve the scandal evened out and she could live with that.

So Edith was driving and independent that way, Sybil was staking her claim and Mary believed she would soon fly the coop – the war would end and Sybil would not be happy back at the house, courted for marriage. Sybil was far stronger than she, independent and Mary admired her as much as she worried for her.

Mary was not that kind of person. Mary was bred as a Lady and groomed for marriage and life in a similar form to the one she lived now. Nothing much would change when she married...her life would just be the same in a different place, her responsibility to build a family and home with the man but still taking dinners and seasons and whatever else. It loomed unpleasantly, actually, the idea she would go from proper and mundane to the same sort of thing. She could not imagine ever bursting with happiness, overjoyed and excited about anything. But she could not really break free, she did consider her place important it was just she always thought Downton would be hers and that's why her place was important. Who cared if she was Lady Mary if she walked away from the title she thought she was born into? She would never be who her mother was and it was frustrating because Mary was among the only of the daughters who believed very much in the old system.

In her lifetime Mary would come to know this was a problem, her reliance on the aristocratic way of life...It would change in her lifetime and the title that was so important she have would lose it's own importance. A Countess in a few decades would be much different from the decades before. If only she had known, if only she threw it all away and ran with Matthew, knew her damned past would matter very little as time progressed and change came calling.

War was change afterall.

But she went along.

Her Mama was quite consumed running the house, butting heads with Isobel whenever her authority was questioned. Edith had been driving tractor on a farm in the village but even after they no longer needed her she would take the motor sometimes and would help to deliver things to the soldiers – even Edith was out of the house more than Mary! She thought she felt much like her Papa did – a bit...useless and dreary with it all. Her Papa sat and watched other men go off and Mary sat and watched her sisters be useful in a way she'd never be.

Planning for the next Season, visiting Aunt Rosamund and battling herself over Sir Richard were not appropriate hobbies. Sometimes Mary would write and ride but she truly regretted not developing skills beyond learning to be a lady when she was younger. Mary had charm, her Mama would tell her, but it wasn't a lot of use when there was no one around to use it on! Social commitments were fewer and Mary just felt herself an absolute waste of space.

Anna had problems with Bates (although Mary's problem with Bates' ex-wife was admittedly worse) and though he was back at Downton they wondered how to get away from his vengeful ex-wife for good. Anna wanted to marry Bates, desperately, and she would talk about how she felt more whole when he was here – complete and better. She wanted to feel like that her whole life, she told Mary, and Mary felt glad for them. It wasn't easy, their love, but the struggle would make it all worth it in the end. And if Anna pressed on through it all, no matter what, so could Mary. What a vision of perseverance she was, nothing bitter or angry about Anna.

On one particularly rainy, grey day Anna found Mary just staring out the window, at a loss.

"What is it, milady?" She fluffed her pillows and started laying out evening clothes.

"The issue of feeling complete, I suppose. You mentioned it and I've been thinking. How do I go about that, I'm just wondering."

"Well, figure out why it is you don't feel that way." Anna said and she knew from Mary's gaze that the reason was already identified but it was just beyond that.

"Yes, that I've done. I suppose that's...that's the thing." Mary sighed and sat at her vanity, Anna suggesting outfits for dinner and Mary impassive.

"I'm not sure what to say. Except that at least you know what would make you complete – better than living your whole life without until it's too late. Isn't it? Not waking up in a few decades suddenly realized you've wasted..."

"Wasted my life and finally know what would have made it right but it's all gone...Yes, it's better than that, you're right. At least I know. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, isn't that how it goes?"

"And maybe it's not too late." Anna smiled and at least Mary had her.

* * *

It was June when Lavinia had come to Downton to visit with Isobel, though Matthew wouldn't be around she wanted to learn the lay of the land and spend time with her soon-to-be Mother-in-law. Isobel mentioned it at dinner in passing and Mary thought to invite her round, offering tea and time with someone Lavinia's own age. Yes, it was a pleasant thought and she believed they could be friends – she did like the girl and felt a bond with her on her last visit, talking of Sir Richard and Lavinia's own scandal.

The visit turned out to be suddenly intimate, as everyone was busy (the norm) and it was just she and Lavinia, neither of her sisters were there. Carson stood in the sitting room uneasily as they were brought tea and sandwiches and he cast Mary a wary look as she told him they were fine and he could go.

"It really is lovely here in the summertime." Lavinia remarked and Mary thought she had so much character compared to herself – a petite redhead with light ocean-green eyes, her fringe swept across her forehead and her hair piled high atop her head in an elegantly woven bun. She had a dainty nose that upturned slightly, her pale pink cheeks and rosebud lips completed her sweet, young look. Mary felt strange next to her, sharp and dark in contrast to Lavinia's delicate, soft features, nothing about her too abrasive or harsh. They couldn't look less alike, really, but Mary thought she was beautiful and when her Granny remarked something of Lavinia's looks Mary scoffed. She was lovely, truly.

Ah, Lavinia was Matthew's light and Mary his dark horse, how funny! She had once thought the comparison to light featured Matthew and dark featured Pamuk and how strange she felt to be the dark one in this triangle (or square, if she could ever remember to include Richard).

And oh how Lavinia matched Matthew, she did – Not that Mary thought Matthew to be different than she, or that she still thought of him as a middle-class man but he and Lavinia had similar roots, lived their lives in cities and knew a different world than Mary. They were connected by something different than she was to Matthew, a past, a history, something they could relate to about their growing up. Mary was sure they had similar interests, outside of her own riding and shooting, and would settle into a happy life together.

"Do you find it dreadfully quiet here compared to London? I love the city but a lifetime here makes me certain I couldn't last there year round." Mary sipped her tea and they sat facing one another on the same divan.

"The slow pace is nice, actually. It's nicer air to breathe, even. I really love it here."

"Well, that's wonderful to know – it will be home someday!" Mary smiled, genuinely, but the one Lavinia returned was small, timid.

"How was your visit with Matthew a few weeks ago? Mary pressed on, as Lavinia stayed quiet. "March, wasn't it?"

"It was wonderful, he enjoys coming to London, misses Manchester sometimes, it's a nice return. He didn't seem quite so downtrodden before leaving for the front, either." Lavinia lit up when she talked about Matthew and Mary knew he was a safe topic, they were both equally glad to muse over the blonde Crawley.

"Dear Matthew, he adjusted to Downton so well but I think he intended to go back to Manchester before the war was called."

"Oh? Leave Downton after he uprooted for it? Why?"

Lavinia took more interest in that bit of information than Mary thought she would.

"Well, he...he missed it, as you said." Mary smiled and examined a sandwich closely. She felt a bit analysed under Lavinia's stare and wondered...

"Why don't you tell me about Matthew." She suggested, not unkindly, but with a bit of an edge.

"I'm sure you know him as well as I!" Mary said brightly and she was normally grace under pressure – this wasn't even really pressure but for some reason she felt it was an interrogation unlike she'd had before. It was as if Lavinia was catching on, Mary thought, picking up on something that she didn't know was there to pick up on.

"About _you_ and Matthew, I mean. Please."

Oh.

Lavinia did not mean Mary and Matthew, the cousins brought together through the Titantic tragedy and he the new heir presumptive.

No.

"Lavinia..."

"Mary, I'm not as unawares as each of you might think."

Mary set the sandwich onto her plate, untouched, and if she were a lesser woman she might even squirm in her seat, sweat a bit at the calling up of their (quite recently) lost love, relaying the details to his new fianceé. She didn't squirm or sweat but flexed her fingers, her palms a bit clammy.

"There's not much to tell, really." She was less enthusiastic and chipper, unable to make eye contact, her eyes flitting about.

"I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable but you must know that I am, too, being out of the loop but standing on the edge of it all. It would put me at ease and I'd appreciate it, Mary." It was as if they were switching roles a bit, Mary the meek and uncertain girl, Lavinia the strong woman commanding the room.

"Quite right, I suppose. We were – we weren't even engaged. Matthew proposed and things went bad, his prospects were threatened briefly and he thought that would matter to me and he doubted it all. He had reason to, of course, I didn't act so nobly. He took it back, the day war was announced. He left three weeks later and didn't come back for two years."

"You never even got an ending. Is that what it is, that you two are so fidgety but drawn to each other...still?" Mary thought it was interesting that Lavinia identified with her opinion...that they never got their ending but Matthew believed they never got their start.

"Well – we've had closure, just delayed. I think – I don't know, really. I think we're just naturally drawn to each other because we fell into habit before war. It was hard to be on the precipice of it and then he left and – It felt as if I would fall right off, I simply teetered there for two years. Seeing him again...I apologise, Lavinia, if we ever behaved untoward in your visits here."

"What would you have said, if he'd given you the chance?"

"Matthew doesn't even know what I would have said, I don't know if – I don't know if I even do now – and I don't know if it would be fair to tell you." Mary's hands shook, so awkward and exposed she felt.

"It's over, though? I don't care when, it's just unbearable for me to watch you two skirt the subject, avoid the elephant in the room and do so while acting like I don't know. You're so matched though, I can understand you have a bond," Lavinia spoke a thought Mary had earlier about _Lavinia_ and Matthew and she looked up, surprised, her eyes wide. "I just want all of us to feel friendly and settled."

"Oh Lavinia," Mary sighed heavily and the guilt she didn't feel a couple of months before when she was wrapped up in Matthew against the house in the dark of night suddenly washed over her. An oncoming wave, she knew, that she tried to swim quickly from the weeks but there was no escaping it – of course guilt would find her eventually. "It's over. It is. We had words, we felt relieved – There are issues, my issues, that remain but Matthew's free of them."

"I don't care when, I'm just glad it's at rest. Not for me but for you, honestly. I care for you both so much!" Lavinia smiled and Mary felt sick. She kept saying, "I don't care when", as if she knew, as if she somehow knew. Darling insightful Lavinia.

"Why do you keep saying that...you don't care when..."

"I can tell it's recently, is all. Matthew was more at ease and you've never had me up before, just the two of us, so I know you must feel better about it all, too. Maybe we can all try again."

Mary wanted to tell her it wasn't an affair, nothing outrageous or tawdry but...but she couldn't reassure her of that without lying about what had happened and Mary didn't like to lie to someone so honest and good but she also didn't want to admit what it had been.

"He loves you so, Lavinia. You're the ones who are matched." Mary picked up her tea cup and it clattered against the saucer for a moment as it fumbled in her loose grip but she was coming back to herself, appreciative it was less of an onslaught than she thought. No, Lavinia wasn't the type to tear her apart but she expected anger, maybe, something closer to the way Sir Richard would react.

"I loved him the moment I saw him, I felt." Lavinia smiled at the private memory.

"You chose to ask me over Matthew?" Mary blurted out, wondering if maybe she had already asked Matthew and was trying to compare stories or if this conversation was something Matthew shouldn't know about...

Lavinia seemed to be relaxed, satisfied with the knowledge gathered and happy to move on with their afternoon. She ate a sandwiched, chewed leisurely, relaxed her posture some. Mary tried to follow suit but couldn't attempt food just then.

"I considered it but knew war was enough on his mind – I didn't want him to think I feel threatened, because I don't, just very aware of whatever it was between you sometimes."

"It's refreshing to know someone so honest, Lavinia. I hardly ever say what I'm thinking like you've done this afternoon!" Mary's upbeat tone returned, a bit higher than normal and the new elephant in the room was their betrayal, their stolen, delayed goodbye kisses but Lavinia seemed prepared to put it all behind and that was included (even if Lavinia didn't really know).

Mary would come to know that this was only the first time Lavinia was willing to put it all behind and start again when it came to Matthew, forgetting his and Mary's indiscretions – Very aware of the events she was putting behind the second time.

"I'm glad to be friends, Mary."

Mary was too, or perhaps she was mistaking her gladness over not being fully found out for that of friendship. At least her heart didn't ache too badly sitting there discussing it all, the love and loss and tragedy of it – She could see Lavinia's point of view and reflected on her interactions with Matthew over the last few months. She was sure there had been awkward encounters and maybe Lavinia really wasn't so unawares when she and Matthew found themselves closed off in another room heatedly discussing all that flowed between them, yet to be settled. She was embarrassed, actually, to think of the number of times they stood in a corner, conversation far too intense for the setting – of course Lavinia had noticed and of course she'd been too polite to point it out.

_Look at the chances_, Mary thought to herself, _look at all the chances you have to get out from under it, begin again_.

How lucky was she.


	5. 1918 III

**Hello - Thanks again, very much. I'd like to tie it up with one more chapter & then move on. Just pondering the right place to leave off. Glad to have gotten this out though!**

* * *

_July 1918_

* * *

A strange part of war meant the disruption of ritual and routine, even the most ingrained and traditional. As long as the home was convalescent there would be no season in London, although Mary did visit Aunt Rosamund more frequently through the summer months, seeing Carlisle while she was there, too. It was easier to be with him on his home turf, he felt less threatened and less like an outsider when they would go for a meal in the city, or he would come to Rosamund's grand place and they would catch up on the rumblings of London.

As her Aunt and fiancé discussed the latest financial news, expressing gladness they had not invested in a failing company, Mary had the bizarre thought that perhaps they would be a better pair than she and Carlisle! Of course, men like him (and Anthony Strallan and all the rest) tended to marry younger because they had no children and although Carlisle was a modern sort of man, he still had a name and legacy to carry on and that was better found with Mary than someone his own age (which was, incidentally, Aunt Rosamund).

He was older than her father.

It wasn't something uncommon with their kind of people – marrying for status, marrying for money, marrying for any situation but love – but she knew what an older husband meant. It meant he would die first, leave her alone with the children and the house and she would be a version of Rosamund. Dear Aunt Rosamund, half of her life not gone yet, and she would be alone the rest of it unless she happened upon someone eventually. Not that her Aunt wasn't a desirable woman but it was what it was – men marrying younger. Is that what Mary was destined for? Some years shared with Carlisle until he died and she watched her years tick by in the face of their children, until the house was empty and she was lonely and it was too late.

Maybe Mary would go first.

Or maybe she should stop thinking like that. How dark and threatening the far corners of her mind were.

Richard showed Mary around "his" London, as he called it, the places she would never have seen here with the family. The dirtier but more interesting places where men placed bets and they served women alcohol, and Richard received leads on stories and contacts. They walked arm in arm, Richard smoking a cigar, Mary in her long blue summer coat and it could have been perfectly nice, she thought. Especially if they lived in the city, it was easy to forget of all she had at home and would be giving up when she was not there.

Mary found it wasn't all that hard to have a happy time with Richard. He was a much kinder man when they were one-on-one and he was charming in a very sly way. He boasted few patience and was cutthroat, she would never want to be on his bad side – or his very bad side, considering he did show his temper to her – but he seemed to want a life with her, he thought she was important in the grand scheme and they could have a full marriage.

She appreciated his outlook.

"Matthew Crawley will be home from war some day, you know." Richard patted her hand linked through his elbow as they crossed the street, her shoes clicking quickly, avoiding puddles left from the rain.

"Yes, I suppose and I hope soon but – Why do you mention it?"

"I worry your outlook will change when he's back for good."

When Mary and Sir Richard first met in London, Aunt Rosamund had introduced her as fresh off a break-up and Mary had proceeded to scoff about her relationship with Matthew, so it was never a secret like it had been from Lavinia. Mary hadn't painted their near-engagement as much of a great deal at all and that she was rather thankful they hadn't gone through with it (recalling things that she said made them echo loudly with their untruth – truly, she hoped no one thought she meant them).

"I doubt it, in what way?"

"Must I say it, Mary? That you'll see what he has to offer again, over what we could have. I fear things would not be easy were that to happen." Richard in his own way was expressing doubt, although mingled with a slight threat.

"Richard – I know you're not an insecure man so Matthew Crawley of all people shouldn't be a concern for you." She stopped and looked up at him. Richard was a fine creature, dark blonde and blue eyed not unlike Matthew, but he was made differently. He was slim and his hair held hints of red, his eyes a deeper blue than Matthew's – He was rarely clean shaven and his jaw was chiseled, his face angled and interesting. The creases on his forehead told of his naturally inquisitive tendencies, always furrowed and doubtful. He wore a hat well, as if they were made for his features, and his voice was husky and pleasant.

"Oh he's no concern for me but he is for you, I worry."

"I trusted you with information that spells my end if ever widely circulated, can you take that as commitment enough? The rumours came from within my own walls and family initially, and I trust you more than I do they – I put my fate in your hands, I never could do that with Matthew or anyone. I have faith in you, Sir Richard, have a little in me."

She didn't ask for trust in return because he wasn't all that far off in his worries about her and Matthew but with her new viewpoint it was true...It was true she had faith in him and trusted him in a way she couldn't Matthew. Rather, she thought she would scare Matthew off with the story but knew she never could Richard – it was the fact that Richard was a man, self-made, and had seen the worst of stories imaginable. Little Lady Mary's Turkish scandal was a drop in the bucket.

"You're a persuasive woman, aren't you."

Mary smiled and kissed the man to whom she was engaged very gently on the mouth.

* * *

It was nice to go back to Downton, for the summers there were lovely – humid and overcast or hot and bright, warm rain and long walks. She didn't mind missing their vacations, instead adjusting to summer at the abbey and frequenting a large pond on the property with ducks and ducklings. Some days were so hot Mary would roll down her stockings, haul up her dress and wade into the water to her ankles – it was so improper and tantalizing, some youthful act she had missed out on.

She had even received a letter from Lavinia, inviting her round the next time she was up to see Carlisle and Mary appreciated it, although did not reply immediately. In any case, though, she was adjusting and all seemed well.

It was one of the rare cool days in July and Mary wore a cream-coloured sweater over her afternoon outfit, taking tea in the sitting room with her Grandmother and Mama.

A shudder went through her, and she lost her breath for a moment, almost as if she was about to be ill. She felt chilled to the bone, painful gooseflesh rising as it shook through her and her forehead went slick with cold sweat. Her teacup rattled from her hand and she lurched forward on the settee slightly, the crash of china against the floor stirring her out of it – her eyes opening and aware of her Grandmother's concerned reach.

"I'm so sorry." She apologised and breathed in. Carson looked alarmed as did her Mama.

"What happened?" Her granny asked, taking her hand and Mary squeezed her eyes, trying to place the feeling – foreboding, it felt, eeriness – something very intangible but at the same time horrible and lurking in the shadows.

"I don't know, I suddenly felt terribly cold."

She could place it as nothing but the kind of feeling that a flash of foreshadowing offered – a chill down the spine, a quiver in your limbs. Something unpleasant was close by – something dark and in her very soul.

* * *

Morning filtered through her eyelids and they were very heavy, her limbs stiff and uncomfortable as she was roused the second time in very few hours.

Anna was pulling back the drapes to let in the bright light of morning and Mary must have slept quite soundly if she hadn't heard her come in, hadn't even woke on time to ring for her.

"I didn't think you'd mind, milady, since you wanted to know the word as soon as it came."

Mary sat up against the pillows and tossed her braid over one shoulder, smoothing her hair and squinting toward Anna.

"Of course I don't – I wasn't dreaming it, then?" Her head pounded with the weight of the night before and she shied away from the light streaming in, sensitive to it and the information they'd learned.

"I'm afraid not, milady...His Lordship called the war office and found out Mr. Matthew should arrive in the village today. I'm sure he'll tell you the rest once you're up."

Her breath came as quick and shallow as it had when they were gathered around Moesley and her Papa, prepared for the news that had arrived at Crawley House in the middle of the night.

She put a hand over her mouth and heard her noisy gasps, the pit of her stomach curled uncomfortably. The hunger pangs of morning met with the lead in her gut and she felt ill.

"Anna, I think I should eat something light in bed because my stomach is quite upset." Her throat burned with the effort of taming the rising acid and she tried to breathe deeply through her nose.

"Remember what Mrs. Hughes said, milady, where there's life, there's hope."

"Yes, he's alive. Every nightmare I've had is bombarding me, it will be better once he's here. How selfish of me, what of William?"

"No word yet, Lady Edith hasn't made it back."

"Terrible, terrible." Mary murmured under her breath and Anna went to fetch her a tray, drawing the drapes back some first to ease the throb in Mary's temples from the light.

Matthew was injured. Matthew and William were caught in something awful and Moesley came up to the house when he received the telegram, in the very middle of three A.M., waking Carson who woke O'Brien who woke her parents who woke their daughters...What a chain of command, Mary sighed, all of them gathered downstairs in their nightclothes, fearing the worst.

She knew she had been right earlier that day when she felt the foreboding breath down her neck. It was hard to maintain composure as her Papa spoke and she pleaded with him to tell her as soon as he knew, whether Matthew was coming home to live or die. She came back to bed and laid quietly, eyes wide and seeing everything through the dark – she must have fell asleep at one point, too afraid to cry or worry too far. She would crumble into hysterics if she had to imagine unmoving, blue, dead eyes again. She simply tried to breathe.

It wasn't the biggest surprise, she'd been expecting it on some level for all of the years of war – And that was the worst of it, that she had dreamt of it so often and worried so long that he'd get caught up in something and there was nothing to be done for it. She could only worry, dream and pray, there was nothing to stop the inevitable of it and how useless was she, how pointless and destructive this war was proving to be.

Mary rose for the day and found her Papa to know the rest of the news – there really was none, they didn't know his condition, didn't know exactly when he would arrive and also couldn't get in touch with Isobel before he did. Then there was William, Edith returned with news that he was critically injured and he was being taken to a hospital outside of Downton. Her Granny made it her personal mission to assure William came home to Downton to be looked after in his final time, however.

He would die, her Papa said.

It was, in a word, horrifying.

Early in the afternoon, Mary couldn't possibly sit any longer and went to organize some things to take down to the hospital – a book to keep her preoccupied while she waited and things he may need or may bring Matthew round. Perhaps he'd be in a coma? Perhaps his memory would be suffering?

Robert entered the room and she told him she was planning to go down to the hospital to sit with Matthew, relaying something she read once, mindless medical chatter that she wasn't sure the accuracy of – she just felt the need to talk through it, if she stayed still for too long she might lose her head.

And she knew her father was looking at her as if he was in on a little secret about Mary that even she didn't know – of course she knew, he tread carefully the whole day, worried Mary may crumple into a heap and sob out her undying love for Matthew.

Really, how absurd, she wasn't completely out of control.

But perhaps could be a bit more _in_ control, as he told her that her Mama had written to Lavinia.

Ah, yes – Mary hadn't given her a thought since the bad news met them. His fiancée, the one who should be sitting at his bedside when he arrived...just slipped Mary's mind.

"Good. Yes. I'm glad someone's thought of that."

She turned round, her father's gaze on her absolutely tender.

"She must stay here and not be at Isobel's by herself."

He said nothing and she looked at him again.

"What?" Even, calm.

"Nothing."

The weight the word held spoke itself, that it plainly was, in fact, something.

"You musn't keep looking at me as if I'm fine china."

"I've simply never seen you react this way before, Mary."

She closed the box she was rifling through and stood tall, straightening her neck as she looked at her father.

"It's Matthew, Papa. We've no idea what state he's going to arrive in and he needs comforts,-"

"I'm not looking for you to justify why you care for someone, darling. It fills my heart, that's all."

He kissed her on the cheek and left her feeling silly and warm, oh her Papa, not the most astute man but this he could see. It occurred to her to, perhaps, better disguise her anguish over Matthew and she was stone-faced most of the day, going through the motions and having conversations that she hardly recalled.

She was a bit numb, truthfully.

Carson had given her advice about Matthew – tell him what you feel just in case he doesn't come back...

Certainly, they had gotten their feelings out in their desperate kisses and late night confessions but it didn't mark him as her's, didn't make her feel any better about it now that he was, indeed, coming home from war but in how many pieces? She'd said goodbye to him as a love and now he was home and injured. Is that how it was to go, then? Now he was back, under the worst circumstances, and it was a workout for her heart – a test, a trial.

To see him again...bruised and broken and fallen...would challenge it all. This would be her downfall, her defeat, how would she live if something happened to him.

* * *

There were men in surrounding beds when she went to the hospital and she didn't know where to stand or how to stand or where to look. Sybil was much better at this, she learned, composed and trained and Mary was a live wire, moving and compulsive.

She was there to help Matthew, and was sure she couldn't possibly offer the other wounded any help with her clumsy hands, bundled nerves, and queasy stomach. She told Clarkson she would stay and help and not be in the way – she was a volunteer (Matthew's personal own) and she'd take directions if they gave them.

Sybil told her where to wait as the wounded arrived and – was that Matthew, on a stretcher? She saw blonde hair but he was so very white and still – but alive, she reminded – and when they approached the bed she was by she realized yes, this was their Captain Crawley and she helped lift him by taking a leg.

Scrawled on a tag attached to his person –

_Probable spinal damage._

His legs.

She didn't pause to think long, Sybil saying it could mean anything. Sybil gathered his clothes and out fell the luck charm Mary had given him, her beloved old toy, and her heart pumped hard at the realization that – that he had it with him when he fell. Oh what an endearing boy, she could have cried over the fact that he put any stock into it, her offering it for luck and that he didn't just chuck it in his bag. It was with him, a small bit of her.

"If only it had worked."

"He's alive, isn't he." Mary said to her sister, feeling tender and sensitive. It had worked, he was here – he was here, but injured, but he wouldn't be going back there...If he lived through this he wouldn't be going back to war to die.

The next minute they were peeling away his soiled outfit, blood, mud, and salves from the army's mobile hospital smeared over the garments. Mary brought the warm water and cloths and felt incredibly, incredibly invasive as she saw his body for the first time but in such a horrible way.

They erected a privacy screen around him and Sybil dealt with the more ghastly wounds while Mary dabbed dirt off his skin, moving to his face and washing the smaller cuts there.

"Matthew..." She murmured over and over as she carefully washed around his more prominent bruises. Sybil had already tried to rouse him but they said he was breathing but not conscious – the morphine keeping him sedated. Sybil and Clarkson had him propped up on his side and were washing his back, examining the injury closer with less blood crusted over. Mary saw the water in that basin was dark red and she was afraid to look, to know what deformity lay at the base of his spine.

He was pale, deathly so, his eyes were ringed darkly, bruises and exhaustion taking the toll. She gasped when she first saw them, such a mark of how unwell he was. A dark shadow of beard was growing in and he had gashes near his eye and temple, some along his neck – but mostly he was unharmed there, certainly once he was cleaned up and healthy he would look himself again. She combed her fingers through his filthy hair, dampening her fingers with warm water and cleaning it up some.

It was nice to have a task. It was easy to focus on dabbing at his wounds and not on why they were there, what the bigger picture was. Mary felt calmed. He was here. He was breathing – little steps.

"Mary..." Sybil touched her arm and asked her to support him while Clarkson moved on to another soldier and Sybil wrapped him up. Mary went to the other side of the bed and steadied herself as she touched the warm skin of his waist and hip, a pair of pajama trousers hiding his modesty now, although they were tugged low in order for them to examine his back.

The gouges there were deep and his skin was mangled, a dark purple bruising covering most of his lower back. There was swelling along his spine and the wound was angry looking, fresh and painful to even look at.

"Dear Lord." Mary said to her sister and Sybil nodded in agreement.

"He's quite hurt, I'm afraid. We won't know more until he's a bit more settled."

Sybil bandaged the tender area and they pulled a clean top over his head. Mary stood and tucked the covers around him while her sister joined the doctor. She clenched and unclenched her fists uncomfortably, not wanting to leave but also uncertain if she was in the way. For a few long minutes she looked down on him, just watching his chest rise and fall, slowly but steadily.

It had all changed again.


	6. 1918 IV

**I'm a bit of a liar – This chapter practically wrote itself and it doesn't really tie in with what I had for the ending so I thought I'd post it...and see if I can end it in one or two chapters now. It's a bit gratuitous injured Matthew/sympathetic Mary interaction, with sprinklings of Carlisle. It certainly sets up the next chapter and oh! The kind reviews I received in the last week were too much. I really enjoy writing about Downton & this pairing & to know that – there are those of you who even bother to read is very, very nice. So, thank you all.**

* * *

_August 1918_

* * *

The grounds were vivid with colour, the grass lush and green, the flowers blooming purple and deep reds, yellow and pinks. Leaves rustled on the trees and it was an oft forgotten pleasure – trees with foliage rather than bare and dead. The air was warm and Mary felt so very free with only a light summer dress on, the material allowing the sun to warm her skin, the wind to breathe through it – oh in August's humidity she did not even wear a corset, a camisole beneath her dress for it to fit her shape better. She didn't care very much how her posture looked, as long as she didn't feel stifled in the heat.

Summer at Downton was always very nice, a relaxing, slow pace compared to London and you could see the summer there better – It was in the land, the trees, the birds, the ponds and paths. London didn't look much different to her no matter the season.

"Matthew, let me take you out around." Mary sat at his bedside, now in Downton, and he was curmudgeonly that day, as he was much of the time.

He simply groaned and looked far-off.

"I have something for you if you come outside. We don't have to go far, although the pond is so charming..."

"Are you bribing me? To go outside? Oh my dear, you need a hobby other than I."

Mary rolled her eyes and lifted his covers, folding them down at his feet.

"You're not a hobby," She put his wheelchair close to the bed. "You need the sun. It can heal you as much as anything, you know! You're so moody because you're missing the sunshine vitamin."

"Ah, you're quite the nurse now, Lady Mary."

Matthew sat up and Mary pulled his legs off the bed, as he braced himself with his hands. She took one of his arms over her shoulder and with he bracing his weight, they settled him into his chair.

"If nothing else we're getting quite good at this." He said, adjusting his legs in the rests, heavy and deadened, and Mary smiled at the term – we, they, them. It did feel like a team effort, getting him healthy and in better spirits.

"You'll be able to manage on your own soon, I think."

"Yes, how thrilling, adjusting to my immobile, crippled life." His brows were thick and drawn, his mouth back in it's surly frown. She lay a brightly coloured afghan across his lap, as he still tended to feel the breeze more than she did – he was not entirely healthy yet but his colour had returned and he slept less often.

"I disagree, you're quite mobile." Mary laughed as she pushed him quickly and he gripped the arms of the chair in surprise.

Matthew's back injury was severe enough that his legs were compromised. It was easy to be sad over, Mary still was, desperately so, but she felt if she could offer him nothing else, well, a sunny disposition was something. There too was the issue of an intimate life that he would also miss out on...

Mary would never forget, Lavinia crying in bed at their house, telling Mary that she could never be lovers with Matthew. It startled Mary, both for the reason that everything in Matthew's life was impacted by this injury and for Lavinia using the word...lovers. Of course they had plans to be, of course that was what an engagement meant...Mary had never fully considered it, she supposed. They would have expected to be lovers and to have children and now...

Matthew sent Lavinia back to London, adamant that a life full of nothing but caring for him and his invalid state was no life at all. She had argued of course, and even told Mary that she would die if she couldn't be with him...but, still she left. It was dramatic and heart-breaking and she tried not to dwell on it, or mention it, once Lavinia left – there were too many things that could bring him down, hinder his recovery and a broken heart on top of self-loathing on top of a weakened immune system...It would do no good. Mary supported him throughout it all.

Mary had been the one to tell him it was his back and that he may not walk again. Mary had been the one to hold a basin as he vomited into it, without even flinching. He breathed shallowly and degraded himself, something about an "impotent cripple stinking of sick" and still she was steady.

It was for the fact that nothing could hurt as much as she hurt when they first got word – When she thought he might die and when she first saw his bruised, sickly pallor. She thought she could do anything for him now, handle anything at all – Pump his bleeding heart for him with her bare hands if he so needed.

They set out across the lawn, away from the house and the other soldiers milling about in the pleasing weather. It was hard to manoeuvre the wheelchair across the lawn, it stuck in the grass and dirt and Matthew would joke of the very unladylike muscles she would have from pushing him so often. He would wheel himself when she got tired, although that wasn't easy for him, either. He was weak and slowly recuperating but on this day he stretched his neck and turned his face toward the sun.

He moaned gently as the sun warmed his face, the breeze playing with his hair. Mary smiled – the little things, she thought.

"I'm going to sit." She said as they approached a bench and she angled him toward it so that he would face her.

"Weather like this makes you wonder how there's such a damned thing as war." He murmured, eyes still closed and she sighed, folding her hands daintily and very aware of the affection she felt for him.

"Aren't you glad I forced you to come out? And here," She pulled a small clutch from the apron she wore over her dress and snapped it open. "As promised."

"Oh yes, your bribe." He looked at her as she pressed her palm in his, laying it there.

"A cigarette! Mother would be quick to take back all she said about your nursing if she knew this." He hurriedly stuffed it into his mouth and motioned to Mary for a light. She handed him matches and he flicked one into a flame, inhaling deeply as the cigarette caught.

"You've not been well enough for those before now and I thought you might like a little stress reliever." She tucked the clutch back into the apron and watched him, feeling so content at seeing him smile.

It was harder to find the Matthew she had known in the months after the Titantic sank...The younger Matthew, who was so quick to voice his opinion on things, so quick to point out the contrast in their viewpoints...Boyish Matthew with a head full of floppy blonde hair, trying to find his bearings at Downton. He was darker now and so far from the lawyer she mocked...He was a soldier now, a Captain and his conscience was uneasy with it all, she knew. Men would rather die than end up damaged for life as he sat.

"Mary you're a marauder, pilfering smokes for your sad old cousin." It was the first time he looked truly at ease in weeks.

"Do be quiet, Matthew." Mary said good-naturedly and watched him smoke, blowing rings but disappointed he couldn't see them in the sunlight, only faint grey against the blue sky – It was like a boy blowing bubbles or the like, he took such an innocent joy out of a very masculine habit.

"I think of him often, you know." He let the mystery linger for a moment as he puffed away.

"Who?" Mary asked finally.

"William. He saved my life. How is anything important but for that? I'm here because he threw himself in front of me. I wished I had seen him before..."

Before he had died. William Mason had died. That made two men who had died in the walls of Downton, under drastically different circumstances of course. William had saved Matthew and died because of it and it was another guilt that he carried around – William dead because he was a noble lad and Matthew couldn't even muster happiness that he himself was alive. He felt guilty for his state of mind but it wasn't easy for him to break from.

"He was a sweet boy...Man. Eager and good." Mary did not like to think of death anymore. "I'm glad to hear you talk like that, though. No 'better me than him' sort of thing today."

"Mmm," Matthew murmured pensively. "Not today. I can't begrudge William his sacrifice, can I? I'm here, however broken."

"You are here, and not broken at all – Matthew, you've barely been back and you don't know what could happen...You don't know what you may regret saying if you heal,-"

"I don't want to talk about Lavinia,-"

"I wasn't going to, only saying – only saying your self-loathing may take it's toll."

"Positive attitude leads to positive results, you think?"

Mary sighed and Matthew smoked.

"I will regret when this ends, though." He paused again and was looking right into her eyes as he exhaled the smoke. His eyes matched the sky and it could make her dizzy if she stared too long. Through all that had changed...she reflected yet again...his eyes were still able to leave her breathless.

Mary sighed again, tapping her fingers, perplexed by his new persona, mysterious Matthew with deep, dark thoughts.

"When what ends, Matthew." She thought she may know and knew she was right as he dropped the cigarette (Mary trod on the smoldering butt by her feet, such an ordinary thing that felt strange to her) and reached for her hand. His own were rough, calloused from the war, and had a smattering of small scars covering them (much like the rest of him now).

He lay her hand on his knee and stroked his thumb across it, nothing too intimate, friendly comfort if anything (how many times had she thought that of Matthew, though? Nothing too intimate...).

He smiled and she couldn't help but return it. Matthew's smiles were phantom now, there but not entirely.

"My own personal attendant."

"I'm not going anywhere." She squeezed his knee and then felt ridiculous, knowing he couldn't feel it, so she lay her hand on his arm and held him there. His own followed, his thumb still brushing across her skin.

"Of course you are, you're about to be married. Go live a _real_ life, how grand." Just a little bit bitter was he.

"This is real, Matthew." Mary leaned off the bench some and tilted her head to watch his downcast eyes.

"For me it is."

"Then so too is it for me!" She looked indignant and he rolled his eyes, laughing.

"My own personal cheerleader, then, too."

"Hmm." Mary sat back and Matthew tugged the blanket away from his torso, pulling at the material of his shirt, letting the warmth dapple between his buttons.

"I feel warm today, finally."

It was a small thing but Mary knew him well enough and his progress to know that it was important – he'd been so cold and grey for weeks and it was as if she could see life returning to him before her very eyes.

For the first time Mary felt like she had, indeed, done something in her life – something to be proud over, even in the most basic terms. He wasn't her work, of course, she wasn't an actual nurse and had no claim on him at all but when he smiled she believed it was something.

"I'm glad to spend summer days with you, we've never had the chance before."

"Me too, Mary."

And it was easy but for a moment.

* * *

_September 1918_

* * *

Lavinia wrote to Mary over the weeks that passed until August was September and the air shifted around them.

All in all, three letters (all to which Mary replied). Lavinia never wrote asking for Matthew, never wrote _to_ Matthew, but just wanted to know he was healing – to know he was alive – to know Mary was close by. She knew he was in a bad place and only hoped that someday they could speak again. Lavinia very much resented leaving without putting up a fight – but of course she had his best interests at heart and knew he was weak and weary and a dark, dark man just then. She hoped but did not expect him to change his mind. Mary simply informed Lavinia of his health, his affection for his Mother, his grumblings and sacrifice – and that she was very, very sorry they had ended.

Mary told Matthew of each letter but it did nothing to change his outlook on the girl he had sent off, he was gallant and hateful all in one. He would grunt and sigh, express his regret over the situation but that he believed he was coming along better without having to worry about breaking her heart every day with his "inability to do a damned thing".

"But you broke her heart by asking her to go."

"Yes perhaps, the one time, but to sit at my bedside day in and day out would be a lifetime of heartbreak and she deserves _so much better_."

"Whatever you say."

Mary wondered if Matthew ever thought he was breaking her heart, for she did sit at his bedside day in and day out, wheel his chair and hold his hand. She wasn't sure what it meant, wasn't sure what he considered the arrangement to be – perhaps he just thought she was made of stronger stuff than Lavinia but Mary was truly uncertain of that. She knew Lavinia would have done the same and it was selfish and unfair of Matthew to ask her to leave without even being settled into his new way of life. But Mary did not argue, perhaps for her own selfish reasons (maybe Richard would disappear and she and Matthew would just be an eternal bachelor and spinster, his refusal to marry and her refusal to leave him) and her own heart did break – For the fact that she could help him all she wished but he would never have her, never like himself and see his worth again as long as he lived in the chair.

"You're too compliant with me, sometimes, Mary."

"I don't mean to be and if I really wanted to argue, I would. Nothing I say is shallow – I do mean it all. You must know what's best for you."

A cough in the doorway drew her attention and it was Carson, dear Carson, looking uncomfortable and accidentally intrusive of their private conversation.

"Milady, we've had a call from the train station. Sir Richard's asked for Branson to go collect him in the motor. His Lordship was unaware of this visit and is curious if you knew."

"Oh goodness." Mary stood and began collecting Matthew's dishes onto the tray, and caught the look of unease on his face. "No, I didn't. I apologize to you and Mrs. Hughes for not having things prepared beforehand."

"Not at all, Lady Mary. If I may so, the apologies should be his."

"And they will be. Thank you, Carson."

"It's as if he's trying to catch me off-guard!" She exclaimed to Matthew once Carson had gone.

"Well, he's succeeded, hasn't he?" Matthew nearly smiled.

"Yes but what of it – there's nothing distasteful to find."

"Not to anyone else but I'm sure he's none too pleased I monopolize literally all of your time. Be easy on him."

"Don't take his side, this is a putout for everyone."

"Mary – take a breath, won't you? Most people aren't so upset to hear that their fiancé is visiting."

She picked up his tray and tried not to glare at him, tension an undercurrent they were all riding. He was trying to be supportive of Carlisle and it was bizarre.

"I'll come by before dinner."

After dropping Matthew's tray and dishes off and speaking briefly with her Papa about Richard's impromptu visit, Mary found she didn't even have time to change before Carson was announcing his arrival.

With a sigh, still donning an apron over her light blue dress, she went out to the driveway, standing with only Carson to greet her poor-timing fiancé. Her family was preoccupied in the time before dinner, arranging the men and completing their own tasks, so it was just her and him.

"Richard, what a surprise." He stepped from the car and pulled his hat off, tipping it to Carson in the process.

"I hope you're not upset."

"Of course not. Why didn't you let me know?"

"I'm not staying overnight and I'm not staying long – I have business in France and won't be back for a few weeks. I didn't want you to have the chance to tell me not to come when it will be so long before I can again!" He smiled, wore a dark grey suit, a smart hat, and a pocketwatch,

"Well, I'm glad to see you, then. Would you like a walk? Or some tea?"

"Tea, I think, I'd like to see how the house is running now."

"Of course." After he kissed her cheek he followed her inside, passing off his hat and coat as he did.

"You look utterly common, Mary. An apron, do they have you greasing the pans?"

"Don't mock it. I'm doing what I can."

"And how proud I am of you, dearest." He sounded insincere but he took her hand as they walked to the drawing room and drank tea while the house clattered around them, readying the men for dinner.

"Where's Miss Swire?" Richard asked eventually (perhaps inevitably), sitting in an armchair and crossing his legs, his posture that of a very important man.

"I suppose you've not heard – Matthew broke it off with her not long after he turned up injured. She went back to London..." Mary untied the apron and folded it up.

"Is that so?" Richard never looked like he was surprised, his forehead always creased, his brow always furrowed as to suggest that nothing took him off guard – he expected everything and immediately questioned it. "And how is Mr. Crawley? Ready to go home, soon, I expect?"

Mary tilted her head, lips pursed, her own frown matching his.

"No, I'd expect not. Crawley House isn't exactly accessible. No one's really discussed it but we have ground floor bedrooms – he'd be just as well-suited to take therapy here."

"You can't be serious," He drank his tea and watched Mary, disbelieving. "It's a good thing we're marrying soon."

Mary raised her eyebrows.

"How soon are we marrying? And why would that matter to Matthew being here?" She should have caught herself before challenging him but his matter-of-fact tone begged it from her.

"Don't play naive, you spend far too much time with him, even when I'm here – I can't imagine what it's like when I'm not! And as soon as _you set a date_, Mary."

"Right, well – After the war, is all I can say. Let's not argue. Tell me about your business trip and how much you'll miss me." With Mary's easy, charming smile the rest of their visit was less tense.

He told her of his trip, to look into buying newspapers in various other locations and also to look at houses – a vacation home for them once they were married, though they'd discuss their permanent home soon enough – and Mary asked him to reassure her it was safe to be travelling in the throes of war. It was very easy to like him when they spoke easily and of his interests, although she found her cheeks hurting from her disingenuous smiles, her tongue tying as she avoided talking of Matthew.

Truly, Richard was more interested in bringing him up than Mary was and she knew this would be their point of contention forever. There was the faint suggestion of cat and mouse play but Mary refused to be cornered or make a mistake and she was the perfect graceful bride-to-be until he left at dusk.

"Do write, darling." She said as she waved him off and he looked handsome in his hat, although intimidating.

Things had gone smoothly and she felt sure that Richard was satisfied and that she had avoided a full-blown argument. Without the rest of her family around, namely her Papa and Granny, it was easy to keep him in a better mood and she wondered if this was how they were to function the rest of their lives – Careful to situate him away from the more ruthless members of her family, careful to avoid Matthew, careful not to offend him...Should she have to work so hard for it? For something so unfulfilling?

Mary realized she felt wholly exhausted and it had only been a couple of hours.

She sighed as she stood with Carson, waving him off, and Carson murmured in agreement.

"I don't feel like a big dinner tonight. I think I'll go see Matthew and then retire early." Mary smiled at the butler who claimed a soft spot in her heart and he smiled back.

"You do well, Lady Mary, at caring for Mr. Crawley and bearing Sir Richard."

"Oh Carson, let's not talk like he's a burden." The look she shared with him told she agreed. "But thank you."

The burdened Lady Mary returned to Matthew's room, sighing and folding her arms as she took up the armchair in the corner of the room near the head of the bed, rather than the straight-back wooden chair she usually perched upon. She felt less formal tonight and crossed her ankles, slumping back into the cushioned chair, feeling small and listless.

"I had dinner early with Mother in the common room." He said, a book in his hands. He didn't have a huge appetite and hadn't yet been in his formal dinner attire but no one minded – He was a wounded soldier like the rest of them and deserved his privacy, not to be paraded out in front of the family if he didn't feel well. He felt just at ease eating with the rest of the soldiers.

"Has cousin Isobel gone?"

"Yes, she's at the hospital tonight, they're short staffed."

Mary nodded, knowing her own mother would be glad to be running the house on her own that evening.

"Are you very tired of me? I can go to my own room and sigh."

"Not at all, tell me about Carlisle."

Mary sighed again and they both chuckled. Matthew folded his book across his lap and lay there in striped pajamas, so heart-warming was he that Mary had to pause and press a hand to her mouth, overcome for a moment.

"He's fine, off to acquire more newspapers he says. Ruler of the free press or something like that. He makes me so tired though, more than when I wheel you around – It's as if having him here is slinging a physical body over my back."

She rubbed a hand across her forehead and looked at Matthew, all wide blue eyes and she knew there was much he wasn't saying. She wished he would but knew he wouldn't – He wasn't the biggest fan of Carlisle, she suspected, once saying that if he ever treated her badly he would have Matthew to answer to...but he wouldn't speak against Richard now. Not after she and Matthew had put their turmoil to rest, not now that he was home from war and worse for wear...He wouldn't want Mary to think there was a chance for them if he was against Carlisle, because Matthew couldn't understand anyone wanting to be with him.

(_"And if should they just want to be with you? On any terms?" _Mary could understand it_)._

"Would you like me to read aloud?" Matthew's voice rumbled, smooth and soothing, and she blinked languidly, her stare soft upon him.

Mary curled her feet up off the floor and onto the chair, careful not to let her shoes print on her nice dress, and looked like a graceful feline ready for a well-needed nap.

"I'd like that very much."

Matthew looked over at Mary, with her legs tucked beneath her and her head propped up by her hand, eyelids droopy, and licked his lips first, pausing for a long minute.

"Unless you'd rather not!" She laughed lazily, comfortable, inappropriately so in his bedroom, too content to care.

"This all feels rather domestic, doesn't it." It was a statement, not a question, and he didn't look nervous or upset but content, as well.

In a way, it did feel domestic but also...empty. He looked small sitting up in the bed, surrounded by pillows and quilts, his pajama top not buttoned the whole way up, the collar askew. She never wanted him to feel lesser than he once was. It was important for him not to feel that way but she missed the self-assured Matthew, sturdy and tall, looking down into her eyes instead of her looking down on his. She knew he felt weak and helpless and she tried to make him see otherwise but she felt like she could gather him into her arms all at once and it was sweet but not how he would want to be.

Mary knew she likely enjoyed this downtime with Matthew too much and that it would have to change and he would have to get into a better frame of mind and she'd have to move away.

"Oh Matthew." A drowsy benediction and her eyes rested shut as he began to read, his voice a deep murmur that stilled her flailing soul. Was there anything more to the days than this? To simply spend time with him was the easiest thing, and should the world apart from them stop turning...that would be fine. It would be the two of them. It would all be much easier if it could be so.

Unmoving, but still aware of his voice, sounding far off, indistinct but a unique lullaby of it's own...she heard him pause, and sigh. The pages rustled and the book thudded and he sighed again. He was moving, the sleepy part of her brain realized, and she should help him, maybe...oh but she was gone, just aware of his presence and the comfort it brought, not of her duties just then.

She felt a warm weight settle over her legs, scarcely recognizing that he had, from his place on the bed, tossed a quilt across her and that cemented it, she was asleep with a faint "mmm".

There she slumbered, and so too did the summer.


	7. 1918 V

**You have all been very kind to me! I'm so very taken with these characters and have enjoyed telling this side of their story. I have one last chapter (actually) after this and then will move on to other stories about them, because there can never be too much to write about Matthew & Mary. The third series is so exciting, I hope you're all enjoying. This chapter went pretty in depth with Mary's thoughts on the issues mentioned initially and that might bore some people but it was interesting to write about. Cheers!**

* * *

_Autumn 1918_

* * *

Autumn marked the return of Sir Richard, Lavinia, one 'Patrick Crawley' (better yet, Peter Gordon), and the proposition of Haxby – All of which left Mary with high emotions and her head splitting in two.

Mary dismissed quite quickly any notion that Patrick Crawley had survived the Titantic disaster in 1912 and was sitting in their house, a burned and and recovering soldier. It was too much to even consider, especially as Matthew beat himself up over it, convinced this should be Patrick Crawley, rightful heir to Downton, for it would better for them all. Really, she was horrified that after all the family went through they had to contend with this – A man they had dead and buried, said their goodbyes to years before, was supposed to be among them? Years spent with amnesia in Canada? It was too convenient, and the revelation of Peter Gordon proved it for Mary. She supposed Edith mourned Patrick more than she did because she had true love for him but sentiments for her sister weren't going to convince her to even begin to believe this was their Patrick Crawley.

Of course she wished for her cousin to still be alive but it was cruel to resurrect a dead man and pour salt into the wounds of his family during a war and their own tragedy. An iron fist was best in this sort of situation and when the man disappeared without another word, she was satisfied and relieved.

Thinking of Patrick was difficult for Mary in any way, for she knew she disregarded him and did not feel his death as painfully as the others but for her entire life, Patrick was such an emblem of all she would lose. The fact they would, indeed, eventually marry was settled when they were much, much too young and growing up with him as a cousin made it even more difficult. Mary had been robbed of a childhood with Patrick and was forced to regard him as the boy who would become her husband, and inherit her home and it angered her. Her identity was taken from her at a tender age and she lost her self-worth along with it – Patrick was the one who mattered because he was the boy and Mary, the eldest, the girl, meant nothing except for marriage. She must not lose Downton for the family so she must marry Patrick and that was that.

She very much resented Patrick Crawley every year afterwards and he spent more time at Downton with Edith and Mary had no jealousy over it, just sick that she was in this strange arrangement when so clearly her sister wished to be – There could have been actual love for them there.

Mary had not much recovered herself when Matthew came along, another man inheriting what she always dreamt to be her's but the older she got, the more mature she handled it – Taking matters into her own hands and the like. If she really thought of it, the idea of Lavinia in her place as Countess of Grantham made her physically ill. There were only so many times, she thought, that she could lose her home but alas! The relationship with Matthew proved otherwise.

But, Mary did not think about it selfishly, and did not think about Patrick for she could not bear the bitter resentment mingling with guilt – for she had felt _free_ when that engagement had ended, as free as someone like her could, and how despicable was she? She was free from the engagement just because her cousins had died. She hated herself for thinking as she did.

So, along with that, November marked the end of the Great War. The First World War of the two Mary would know in her lifetime.

It meant a return to life as they knew it, their home would be big and empty once again, as the soldiers packed up and went on, carrying their own haunts. But it also meant change. The world would change, that was what war brought on and it was a plunge into the great unknown – what would remain, what would fall away in the light of death and debt.

Putting their lives back together around the jagged scar that war left on the nation would not be easy and no one came out the other side unchanged.

It meant personal change for Mary, too. With war ending, there would be – well – her wedding. It was the only date she had committed to. It would mean leaving life at Downton, the home she would spill her blood for, and going to Haxby.

Haxby belonged to the Russells, she knew them her whole life...and they were gone...and it was empty. Their son Billy died in the war and it was the end of life as they knew it, so it was the end of Haxby as they knew it. Mary could not help but marvel that it could have been her family, could have been the Crawley's...Matthew could have died, anything could have happened, they could have lost Downton. They could have, as Carlisle put it, given up, too.

But now Haxby would be Mary's home, she agreed to it passively, supposing she and Richard had to live somewhere and he was satisfied with that (he should not have been, he should have seen the discomfort written all over her).

Richard was also grooming Carson for a move to Haxby with them and it was the one thing that strengthened her wavering confidence in a new life –_ Oh good,_ she thought,_ Carson. A piece of home, someone she loved._ It was appropriate to want someone you loved moving with you, was it not? Her conscience raged at the thought – Carlisle! Carlisle is the one you are supposed to love in this move.

The more days she spent with Matthew, the more she was certain she didn't have to marry Sir Richard. For how easy it was to be alone with Matthew and she didn't think she would miss out on life as a married woman – To sit with him the rest of her days seemed a fine exchange, for he would never have her again, so they could stew in their misery single but together.

She told Matthew one day, after Richard had taken her to Haxby, that she didn't have to marry him and in the lifetime before his war injury Matthew may have agreed (he had once asked her just why she was with Carlisle, pleaded for an explanation of secrets). But he was adamant that day that she did have to marry Richard and if he was threatening those chances he would go away and never see her again. He had nothing to share, nothing to give and it saddened her but quieted the constant internal conflict. She had said it, Matthew had denied it, and so she went along with Richard.

When he showed up for a visit with Lavinia in tow – at the knowledge of no one but her mother (and Mary smelled conspiracy all over it) – she was upset. And Richard knew that she was, and it was not for Matthew's benefit! It was not because he asked for it, not even because Lavinia had. It was Richard, selfish, controlling Richard hoping to grease the wheels for himself and no one else.

Truly, Matthew broke off with Lavinia because he loathed himself, a man with deadened legs could offer a woman nothing, he thought, and it was self-pity at it's most extreme. He was being noble but also frustrating. It was good that Lavinia came back, Mary knew, but she still resented Richard for hauling her up there – Mary felt like she was caring for Matthew very well. Of course that was the problem for Richard and her Mama! A crippled man shouldn't bring out the best in her and take up most of her time. Matthew was Matthew but he had nothing to offer, they all thought, including himself of course. Mary thought she was the only one fighting in his corner.

Perhaps Mary would be sympathetic, or even glad for it, if either of the two had been in contact or were desperate for the other but she was angry. Oh it was all well and good if Matthew and Lavinia could repair what had been lost but the heart of it was Carlisle manipulating the people around him - manipulating her loved ones because he did not trust her and he held power over her.

Certainly, she was at fault, she should have froze Matthew out when Carlisle was around but it would have been dishonest – it would have been cruel and dishonest but once upon a time she would have done so. If Matthew had not been injured, near death, and constantly on the corners of her mind she would have moved on and she would have seized Carlisle for the social opportunity their marriage would be for her. She hated it but she was softer now and she could not build her walls back up quick enough.

"Suppose he doesn't want her back, have you thought of that?" After dinner she and Carlisle walking through the hallways, quipping quickly to each other.

"He needs someone to look after him,-"

"Yes, but,-"

"And you'll be too busy with our new life, won't you." It was almost a challenge, for her to back down in the moment.

"Look, I know you're used to having your own way,-" She began with little patience but he grasped her arm, hard enough to startle her, and guided her against a beam. The intimidation she often saw in him was right in her face then and she didn't let her fear invade her features but her neck was tense, flexing as she controlled her breath.

"Yes, I am and I'll say something now I hope I won't have to repeat – If you think you can jilt me or in some way set me aside, I tell you now you have given me the power to destroy you and don't think I won't use it." He slackened his grip but stayed in her face, not letting her move and when he spoke next his tone was less severe, more the wicked businessman and less the threatening negotiator.

"I want to be a good husband, and for you to be happy but don't ever cross me. Do you understand? Never." Carlisle, his face tight and perspiration slick at his temples, kissed her and Mary simply allowed it, too stunned to throw him off, too smart to even consider it. "Absolutely never."

She bade him goodnight not long after and when he had gone upstairs, for the hour wasn't particularly early!, Mary went to find Matthew and did so in the small library, where they had gathered after dinner, with Lavinia and her Papa.

Mary was furious and scared, her limbs weak.

"Oh Papa, have you not had enough yet?" Her voice was nearly shrill and her joke fell flat on the two Crawley men, who had similar expressions as they looked over to her (their shared genes meant they shared chins as well as charming concern).

"Mary, you're still up. Where's Carlisle?"

"He's turned in." She sat on the settee beside Lavinia, the fire popping and cracking warmly, her Papa in a chair and Matthew in his own.

Mary took a steadying breath, nearly dissolving behind her gloved hands for a moment to blink back tears but she felt calmer in the comfortable room, light not too bright and fire not too hot.

"Are you cross with him?"

"We've had a row, would it be us otherwise?" Mary's smile to her father was bright but he still frowned, concerned.

"Oh darling."

"It's fine. You two carry on, Lavinia and I should catch up." Neither looked particularly convinced but struck up their conversation as Mary turned to the strawberry-haired girl. She wore a cream-coloured dress that draped around her body and she looked very romantic washed in the firelight, Mary thought kindly.

"Sir Richard isn't easy to handle, is he?"

Mary and Lavinia shared a look, Mary acknowledging that Lavinia knew too well the heavy blows Richard could deal.

"No but that's his nature, I suppose. He loses his temper but tries not to go too far." Mary looked down and spoke quietly.

"Well, I hope that's the case. But what am I saying, of anyone you can put him in his place, I'm sure."

Mary was aware of the slight twinge on her arm where his grasp had been.

"I do my best!"

Lavinia sipped the wine in her hand and Mary wished she had some to steady her nerves.

"Are you glad to be back?" Mary asked and Lavinia bit her lip.

"I am but I'm worried now that you've been rowing – What was I thinking, sir Richard extending the invitation and not your parents, oh I'm sorry if I'm unwelcome,-"

Mary touched Lavinia's arm, shaking her head.

"No. You're very welcome. He can be controlling, is all. Matthew and all of us are very happy to have you."

Lavinia looked placated but unconvinced (as she should), though she took it no further. It was clear she had doubts over showing up with Carlisle during dinner but was overwhelmed at the promise of seeing Matthew again and Mary couldn't dispute actual love – someone might as well have it, even if she did not.

"You took quite good care of him, I gather. I hope I can measure up."

"And exceed, I'm sure! I know you would have done just the same had Matthew not,-"

"Mary, don't belittle it – you looked after him for months, I can't begin to thank you enough..." Lavinia looked at her very pointedly and then looked to Matthew, engrossed in conversation with her Papa, and then back to Mary.

Her gaze was tender upon Matthew and Mary felt her broken feelings harden again, a bit annoyed with Lavinia's suggestive glance, and Mary would have no more of it – No more being laid out, exposed, that night. Richard had left her feeling powerless and she didn't want Lavinia to think she wasn't in control of herself.

"He's family. Crawley's stick together." Her tone was cool again and she watched the fire so she wouldn't have to watch Lavinia's expression.

"Of course."

Carson entered, announcing Branson was ready to deliver Lavinia back to Crawley House (Mary felt slightly bad she hadn't thought to invite Lavinia to stay there but it couldn't be looked at as rude, simply their house was full to burst).

Lavinia bade Mary goodnight, bent down to Matthew and she kissed his cheek, a few shared whispers between them, and then Robert and Carson escorted her out.

And it was the two of them again.

Mary's head lolled over, resting against her shoulder as she focused on the leaping flames. Matthew's chair creaked as he wheeled away from it and turned to face her, shadows from the fire dancing across his face.

"An evening of surprises, I think." His deep voice drew her eyes and his were pale in the dark room.

"Good ones though, yes? Are you happy to see her?"

"I – I don't think I have much say in it. Lavinia's emboldened, here to stay and won't take a refusal from me."

"Hmm? And would you refuse her? Of course not, Matthew. Be glad she's here."

"I am, so very glad, I just wish it was on my own terms..." His jaw was tight and the ever-present issue of Richard lingered.

"You're happy she's here but not happy he brought her." Mary stated and scooted along the settee so she was closer to his chair – against her better judgement – and he glowered a bit, the grumpy Matthew she was familiar with over the months of recovery returning.

"He behaves as if we're players in a game, I think. Entirely careless, how could he have known, what if no one accepted her back..."

"Well, we'd never be like that but you're right to be wary, he had no business – He thinks he can control the universe. No one's proved him otherwise, though." No one had proved him otherwise including Mary herself.

Mary reached for his snifter of brandy, emboldened as he claimed Lavinia to be, and he handed it off, watching with pressed lips as the remnants slid into her mouth.

Matthew swallowed as she did.

"Are you quite fine?" And he picked up on her dark mood, her cold, settled features.

"We're moving to Haxby. Isn't that just like him? Of course we need a home and he thinks it should be close to here but he thought nothing of taking me there. Their son died in the war and that's all I can think, it's all I can feel. It's a grand place but everything I loved about it as a child is gone. Won't I live my whole life with the ghosts of a family doomed in my rooms? He sees a vast opportunity, to put his things and buy even more – I see how shattered they must be, how hard it will be to build the place back up..."

"But that's a marriage, that's a home – yours and his...Build your...your life..."

"Oh Matthew! What a pitiful argument, convince me a bit better, please." Mary smiled and dangled the snifter from her fingertips, teasing.

He laughed weakly, too.

"I can't, I suppose. I wish he wasn't so hard on you."

"Mmm. Everything will look better in the morning, Mama's motto."

"Quite right." She noticed his breath was hard, and she felt the guilt of laying her troubles on him.

"You mustn't listen to me, though, as I'm always saying."

"Mary."

She sighed and he touched her arm at her elbow, not unlike Richard had earlier but the touch meant something much different coming from Matthew – she wished they could stop all contact because when would she ever not compare him to Matthew? She conceded if anything was Richard's downfall it was Matthew Crawley. She would be all Richard's if it weren't for him.

Mary did not cry or squeeze her eyes shut or sob but she did bow her head, accepting the proffered moment to collect herself, hiding her trembling chin from him.

After a short minute - "Will you take me to my room? I could use your help, I can't wheel so well in this stiff jacket."

He looked so smart in his formal dinner wear and she smiled at him, still so Matthew even attached to the chair. And she knew he was asking for her sake, not his – it would be just as easy to ring for Bates but Matthew seemed to think he could give her this, could comfort her somehow by needing her help and asking for it so pitifully, his best puppy-dog eyes in place.

She smiled cheekily, small lines pulling at her eyes and enhancing how genuine it was.

"Of course."

* * *

Robert met them in the hallway and stood by, bidding them both goodnight, which perhaps wasn't wholly normal. He normally would scoff and tell Mary to ring for Bates. Mary thought his eyes were shining a bit in the light, wetter than normal, emotional over something or the other. She figured she was right, that Richard and her mother were in cahoots to get Lavinia back and Mary away from Matthew and that her father didn't approve, touched was he by the gentle change in his daughter. They were dual souls, she thought, and tried not to think of how desperate it must look – Mary and Matthew hanging on to something so damaged and beyond their control.

Matthew had tugged his bow tie off by the time they reached his room and Mary had flicked the small lamp on.

"I don't miss this, I must say," he tugged his collar. "Wool uniform over stiff suit any day." He undid the top button and looked relieved at the freedom from constraint.

The bed was already turned down and Mary folded his tie up, placing it in a drawer.

"Would you help me with this bloody thing?" There was an irritated urgency in his voice as he shrugged his shoulders, trying to shed the coat, clearly uncomfortable with the material stretched across his back.

Mary stood behind and slid it from his shoulders, down his arms and then Matthew moved his back forward off the chair so she could tug it out from there.

"Thank you, dearly." He said with a groan and often Matthew's exasperation was just beneath the surface and she was sympathetic with his frustrations. She believed, too, that he would hide them better from Lavinia than he did from her and he would boil over if that was the case. He murmured quiet curses under his breath as he plucked open the buttons of the shirt.

He rubbed the back of his neck firmly and Mary watched, still behind him, and when his own hand moved she placed her fingertips there, so gently that Matthew thought he was mistaken at the touch.

She combed her fingers through the thick, blonde hair at the base of his neck, very soft and slowly, hardly moving at all, just wriggling against the strands there.

Mary hummed a nameless, soothing tune and tickled the skin of his neck, hot and clammy from his collar. Her other hand gripped the handle of the wheelchair, for fear she would do something more impulsive. She could only remember that, when she was young (very young, when she was unafraid to look weak), her mother would stroke her hair when she was upset until she fell asleep or her fiery temper eased.

Matthew was tense, his neck and shoulders knotted, and he inhaled sharply at her touch.

His head lolled slightly after a moment, and he breathed slow and deep.

"You're going to put me to sleep." He murmured, letting his head fall forward so she could slide her hands over his neck more easily. Featherlight touches, not meant as a rub, just a caress.

Mary was very warm as she touched him but it was better to do so without his eyes on her, they made her feelings all the more intense, their azure blue so penetrating – they would just confirm how very out of line she was, how very attached they were. They'd never admit it, really, even if they did behave this way with no one else around...they were determined it would all end soon and so what did it matter.

It _would_ all end soon, so it mattered none, Mary reassured herself as she ran her fingers up into his hair, scratching his scalp lightly. She'd seen him through, from near-death to...to about to be married again. She'd been along for the healing journey and it was allowable, she thought, that she feel attachment at seeing him piece back together.

"That's the point, it is quite late."

He grunted his agreement, his shoulders relaxing, his shirt loose around them as it hung open at the front.

Mary took a quivering breath. It was taking a liberty, she knew, touching him like this, enjoying him like this, comforting herself just by being around him. It made her hardened heart thaw to feel his skin beneath her fingertips and he seemed so sensitized to her touch, little shivers quaking through him. Mary was digging her own grave, simply unable to stay away from him.

And she was strong! Mary was never a weak woman, taking things in stride and into her own hands, but her armour was cracking and she put on a brave face for anyone else but around him...she was someone else (or perhaps more herself). She the strong Lady Mary hardly recognized herself anymore and it was unfair to feel so, so many things for one person (the wrong person, too).

She withdrew her hands from his mussed hair and squeezed his shoulders to signal she was done. They were broad and strong, and bore the weight of the world, she knew.

"Mmm." Matthew mumbled and she smiled, taking it as a thanks of sorts.

"Shall I ring for Bates?" She went around the other side of the bed to do so but Matthew looked up and shrugged.

"I think we can manage, truthfully. Mother's helped me with it once – you just kneel from that side and I'll,-" He wheeled the chair to the side of the bed, adjusted to his liking. "Just pull myself up if you take this arm."

She did as he said, pulling her dress up so her knees were unrestricted and climbed onto the bed, kneeling over and slinging his arm around her shoulders, bearing some of his weight. He gripped the wheelchair with his other hand and in sync they each did their job and he slid his bottom from the chair onto the edge of the bed. Mary steadied him and clambered from the mattress, her cheeks flushing being in his personal space in such a way, and went back around the other side, each of them lifting a leg up from the floor.

"Aha!" Mary smiled, clapping her hands together, pleased with their resourcefulness. "We did manage." He was getting much stronger, his upper body building as it needed to and she was glad to see so.

Matthew grinned, although wearily, his hair positively rumpled from her earlier ministrations. She felt very tall just then, watching him tug his dress shirt off and she knew she should leave (for good).

"Don't you need Bates for your pajamas?" She frowned slightly, sounding silly.

Matthew laughed at her confusion.

"I've got my temperature back, actually, so I don't mind just an undershirt,-"

"What of your trousers?"

"I can get those off,-"

"But you can't lift to get the pajamas on,-"

"Mary,-"

"You'll sleep in your shorts?" A question and an exclamation all in one and she was very Lady Mary with her eyebrows high and her hands clasped daintily at her front.

"You look scandalized!" He teased, his eyebrows raised as well, and tossed his shirt over the back of the wheelchair, fixing the sleeves of the t-shirt he wore beneath. They were so quick, back and forth, light-hearted then suddenly serious. They were so immersed when just minutes before they had been surrounded by their other halves - How was it that they could forget of Lavinia and Richard as soon as Matthew was in her sight?

"Right. I will leave you to it then." How does one say goodnight after something so ideally, intimately domestic?

"It will be hard for me...to have Lavinia in your place." They both looked uncomfortable with his phrasing and he shook his head, aware of what it suggested. "What I mean is – helping me, instead of you."

Mary nodded, her throat dry, the words catching.

"I would say you're silly but I believe you – You hardly let me help at all at first."

"I didn't even realize I'd changed my mind on that, you were just persistent."

"Yes, well – She will be wonderful, Matthew. And it's her rightful place."

"I know. It's just...a man's private shame. I'm...I'm used to you."

"Me too. We're _too_ used to each other, aren't we?"

"That's probably fair to say." He patted the bed beside where he lay propped up by the pillows, almost as a gesture to confirm the statement – too attached. In her mind her legs carried her quickly out of the room but in reality they stumbled forward until she sank down beside him and they gazed at each other.

"War will be over soon." She said, her voice like honey, her lips dry and sticking together.

"Back to normal, they say. Nothing will be as it was again, I don't think."

Mary twirled the beads on her necklace, feeling the effects of the night – her hair combs were coming loose, there was a dull throb in her head from arguing and wine, and her cheeks burned with sleepiness.

"I don't really know what to hope for anymore," Mary said quietly, at a loss. "I don't know what is coming."

Matthew covered her hand with his own and she looked up, dropping her necklace back against her throat and smiled at him, her cheeks hurting, eyes stinging – to laugh or to cry?, her emotions tore at her.

"Great things are on the way for you, that's my one prediction."

"What were you and Papa talking about tonight?"

"He was gauging my reaction on Lavinia's arrival, I think. He feared that her return was for your sake, not mine – Sir Richard and Cousin Cora think I'm detrimental to you and I can't say I disagree."

"Well I do."

"No matter, I'm Lavinia's burden now and even if I have been damaging to you – you've not been that to me." Matthew squeezed her hand gently and Mary smiled sadly, her emotions tender. How could he talk so easily of these things when she felt like running the opposite direction of it all? _You've not been that to me_ – no, she had been good for him, is what he was saying and she hardly believed it. She made it harder for both of them to move on. She supposed it was easy for him to talk and hold her hand as he did because she was securely engaged and that was important for Matthew – at least he could be around her more easily knowing Richard was her life plan and it seemed to give him a certain amount of leeway, it was strange. He wasn't scared off at the fact of her engagement, instead heartened by it, testing the limits but at least glad there were limits.

A knock came to the half-closed door and they both looked over, not withdrawing their hands from the other. It was a harmless enough gesture (and also quite a necessary one in the moment, containing their emotions through the slight contact) and it turned out to only be Robert.

"Mary, my darling," Her father smiled and Mary's lips quirked, wondering what was on his mind. "You must be so very tired."

"I am and I can also take a hint," She winked charmingly at the Crawley men and stood, smoothing her dress. "Goodnight dears." After quiet words to Matthew, Robert followed behind her down the hall.

"Mary, a moment," She turned back to her father and saw the familiar concern in his face. "You've been a backbone for him when none of the rest of us knew how and thank God for that. I just worry about how Carlisle reacts to all of this."

"Not favourably, as I'm sure you can imagine. If you're going to tell me to stay away from Matthew, I'm well aware of the opinion. And I will – Lavinia's here again and next step is to marry Richard, isn't it?"

Mary very much hoped what she said was true. If she believed it passionately enough maybe something would grow from it.

"It seems so very unfair that you've been a help to Matthew these last months but you can't find success in your engagement as he will have. It'll all come up roses for him and Lavinia while you...go off with Carlisle."

"Coming up roses! Papa, he's crippled. Their relationship may be sweeter but it's no less laden with problems than my own with Richard. We're all on our own paths."

"I only hope, so dearly Mary, that your path is the right one. With Carlisle." So sincere was he that she thought of what it would mean to tell him – everything – Pamuk, her feelings for Matthew, her fear of life with Sir Richard. She believed her father must think she was mad or at the very least, not a decent person, to choose to go along with Richard.

And there was the same fear when she considered telling it all – She wasn't there yet. Not now, not when Lavinia was back and Richard that very night threatened Mary's downfall if she threw him over. No, things must remain as they were, although she felt her noose tightening – either outcome wasn't going to be easy, was it? She thought marrying Richard would be blessed and save her from the Pamuk scandal – but never did she think being in this relationship would hurt as much of herself as Pamuk dying in her bed did. She was in pieces no matter the outcome.

"It simply has to be. Now please go on supporting Matthew because he needs it." She kissed her father's cheek and went to bed.

Afterwards, out of her long dress and jewels, Mary soaked in a bath Anna drew, and sank beneath the surface of the water until it covered her face and she held her breath until it was painful, eyes wide, unblinking and vision blurred by the warm water surrounding her – _Oh, _Mary thought,_ if this is drowning, then this is my life – I am drowning in my life, they feel so the same._


	8. 1919

**Your reviews have been the kindest and most meaningful thing behind this story going on after three or four chapters. This last one _spiralled _and perhaps a bit too much but writing it actually made me feel that much better about all that went on, make sense of it kind of thing. It's a bit of an open ending but of course I believe in canon and that the Christmas special did go on to happen. I enjoyed and struggled writing from Mary's perspective - for some reason I'm much better at taking it from Matthew's. So, The End, and thank you so much, I feel encouraged to write more in this fandom and I hope the feeling is mutual. **

_1919_

* * *

_speak to me slow, my dear_

_no ghost, of course, in here  
pleased to be lonesome, quiet, and clear  
all is alone in here_

_drops in the river, fleet foxes_

* * *

Once she saw one dead body she figured another would look much the same – grey and cold, stiff and heavy, eerie and lifeless.

But when she saw Lavinia Swire's dead body she felt an ache so tremendous nothing else she ever felt compared – The air she breathed moved painfully through her, as if the death had blown a literal hole through her chest that oozed and rotted, her breathing worsening the horrible wound.

For Lavinia looked beautiful even in death. Kemal Pamuk turned to some terrifying, wax-skinned corpse who nearly smothered her as he died atop of her but Lavinia looked like a sleeping beauty. Pamuk had a bulge-eyed look, his eyes stuck open, and his mouth was agape and that's how he remained, frozen and stiff, even after they carried him to his room and she tried to shut his eyes. He had been beautiful in life but was terrifying in death and everything about his death reminded her of how what they had done was horribly wrong. Pamuk was cold and so too was the blood in Mary's veins – chilled and terrified to her core. He would haunt her, she knew nearly immediately, he would haunt her until her own heart beat no longer.

And so would Lavinia.

She had died an invasive death, far too many people standing in the room, watching the Spanish flu take her life, so, so suddenly...

After she died her cheeks remained their peaches and cream colour, the sheen of sweat over her skin offering her a glow even in death. Her strawberry-blonde hair was damp around her head from the fever and in curls and she wore a white nightgown (_Mary's nightgown she had borrowed_) and looked like an actual _angel_, laying dead in yet another bed at Downton.

Mary all but ran from the room.

Her own mother barely survived the pandemic herself and Mary could not believe that Lavinia was the one to die. That of everyone anywhere who could come down with it, Lavinia did and she succumbed...Younger than Mary, innocent and undeserving of such an undignified death.

For it was undignified how they treated her in her final hours, her very own fiancé was dancing in Mary's arms and kissing Mary's lips...and she saw, Lavinia knew it all...

Matthew had regained use of his legs. That had been the most remarkable thing in the world at the time, so unbelievable and reassuring that everything seemed brighter and possible again. Matthew _walked. _He had been paralysed and now was standing, now was taking small steps, and bearing weight and Matthew had his life back. Not only had Matthew survived the war, in the aftermath of it his injury even faded, and he was the luckiest man in the world, _Mary swore_, and she had never felt so happy as when she saw him walk again, smile as he hadn't in years.

Matthew and Lavinia would get their happy ending after all, everyone thought, and they announced their plans to marry in Downton in April and somewhere amid her happiness a dull, cold, numb settled in her heart. Not only were they getting the home she knew and loved and lost...the titles, the legacy...they would get the wedding in Downton before Mary's own wedding...and they would get the happy ending that Mary never, ever could know (at least not living like she was, suffocating slowly with Richard).

It was hard for anyone to believe but she was happier than she was bitter – If nothing else it meant she wouldn't have to marry Richard for a few more months on top of that. She committed to the end of July, Matthew and Lavinia would marry in April and it would be enough time for Mary to enjoy her own wedding, surely.

But Lavinia died days before her wedding to Matthew and no one would enjoy anything ever again, it seemed. How could they? How could anything be fair or happy or real again when someone so guiltless, so sweet, and kind died? She deserved better than that, she deserved better than Matthew even and she got nothing...She got death and Mary couldn't believe it. If it had to be someone all Mary knew for certain was that it shouldn't have been Lavinia.

And then there was Matthew...he was more paralysed after her death than he was after a war injury, after a shell detonated and slammed his body against jagged, hard earth and robbed him of his livelihood for months and months...He had moved more then, had felt more then, believed in possibilities then...And that was something because _then_ he believed in nothing, he hated himself and wished his own death when his legs didn't work...and it was all worse after she died so he was practically catatonic now.

Of course, not catatonic until after he stood at Lavinia's freshly dug grave near their feet and blamed himself and Mary for her death. That they were cursed and doomed and would never be happy, didn't deserve to be happy because Lavinia saw their kiss, heard Matthew's torment of throwing her over for Mary and it was for that she died. He implicated Mary in her death and she was so repulsed by Matthew in that moment that compared to it she loved Richard. It was their end, Matthew declared, and Mary agreed, how could it not be. How could anything ever begin again?

She knew Matthew's guilt would eat away his innards until there was nothing left but a man struck with the luck of health and healing when his fiancée had not been...He would be shallow and empty, a walking ghost of his former self, and nothing would move behind his eyes. Mary knew it because already his eyes were strange and empty, the life drained from them when Lavinia's drained from her.

Mary was surrounded by ghosts. They walked with her each day and were more apart of her life than any real person. Matthew would join them, a ghost to her for he withdrew from all around him so heavily she wasn't sure that he ever existed at all.

Other things had happened between the end of 1918 and the spring of 1919...Richard had tried to bribe Anna to spy on Mary...Carson found out and revoked his commitment to Haxby, breaking Mary's heart and she spoke untoward of him, horrified for the things she had said...Anna and Bates had married...Sybil tried to run off with Branson, the chauffeur...Bates had been arrested on grounds of his ex-wife's death...and everything was in upheaval, turned upside down and rocking their lives.

After Lavinia's wake, after the dirt was thrown down onto her casket and the vicar said the final words and that was it – the end of her life was confirmed and she was borne to the earth again – Mary walked back to the house arm-in-arm with Sir Richard and he was no comfort at all but it was the closest to comfort she would find.

"You need to leave." Mary told him, still wearing her hat and black mourning dress, pale as the spring day was.

"I wouldn't dream of staying and imposing at such a tragic time. I reserved a train ticket yesterday." He said and Mary grasped his arm tightly, staring up into his handsome face (for truly, he was handsome) and wondering if this would now be enough – He would now be enough.

"Thank you. I don't mean to be harsh, Richard, but I will be no company in the coming weeks and the family needs space to fall apart and pick back up if they so need it. We're doused in misery."

"You're strong if anyone ever was. Please think of our marriage while I'm gone, Mary, if nothing else this shows how unfair life can be."

"Unfair indeed. Oh Richard." Mary's chest rose and fell sharply and she thought she may be panicking, thought she may faint or be sick. "She was the kindest person."

"She was. Caught up in something beyond her control."

Mary put a hand to her mouth, for Richard spoke as if he knew and she was sure he did, or at least suspected, and she _was_ ravaged with guilt but Matthew piling it in on her too made her certain she would never feel well again.

"Please don't." Mary's shoulders shook and he rubbed them, frowning as he so often did, and she leaned up to kiss his mouth, his lips thin and rough from the cold spring wind. "Papa will order the motor if you find him. My legs are about to give out, I think."

Richard looked at her very seriously and she thought he may say something epic – say something that would change this tragic dance but he bowed his head and kissed her hand.

"I'll call once I'm back to London. Get some rest, my dear." He spoke softly, his words hanging off of his Scottish tongue in a charming way. She could not read him since Lavinia had died – they had fought the very night of her death, Mary accusing him of only showing up to ensure if Lavinia did die of Spanish flu that Mary had nary the chance to comfort Matthew on her own.

She wasn't sure who she was more sickened by in the last few days, Richard, Matthew, or herself. How could Richard even think that if Lavinia died, in Mary's own home, that she would see it as an opportunity to win Matthew back? How absolutely ridiculous. But then again how far off was he? She had kissed Matthew only hours before Lavinia died, they had known she was sick in bed as they danced and...Was Richard really a better judge of character than any of them?

And Matthew, pulling Mary down into his self-deprecating pit of guilt, shaming her and him and them. Mary felt terrible for ever loving him at all, felt as if Matthew dismissed their very real and obvious feelings for one another in one fell swoop. And also affronted that he thought he could kiss her, while talking of wanting to throw Lavinia over but not being able to because of her selfless sacrifice...what was to say Mary would take him up on it? What was the purpose of exploring the feelings they had buried the previous spring – finally! – _once again? _

Nothing had changed, Pamuk still lingered, Richard would ruin her, perhaps Matthew wouldn't even have her once he knew...No, it was all too much, too ridiculous, too convoluted and she wholly regretted the dance, the words spoken – He took advantage of her emotions, it seemed, knowing she still loved him (so her Granny had told him) and it wasn't fair that Matthew blamed them for Lavinia's demise as some form of punishment for feelings they couldn't control.

"Yes. Thank you. Travel safe." Mary ascended the stairs and left Richard standing below, watching her (she could feel it).

She sought Anna out and begged her to help her corset off.

"I can't breathe in it," Mary bent over her vanity, gasping for breath, aching and trembling. "Quickly Anna."

"You have to calm down, milady," Anna told her, calm and strength as she so often was, and she managed the hooks of her dress very quickly and Mary let it fall inelegantly to the floor. Both sets of their hands pulled at the corset until it loosened and Anna tugged it off. Mary clutched her arms around her middle, standing in her slip and chemise and pulled at the fabric, still so unable to catch her breath.

"Anna, Anna," Mary pleaded, though she knew not for what, and she crumpled onto the edge of her bed, the slip half tugged off her shoulders, her stockings rolled down and she heaved, a dry sob shook her entire body.

"Oh, oh." She hiccoughed through the tearless cries and Anna left for a moment and came back with water and a thick quilt.

"Here. I don't know what you need but you're frozen to the touch." Mary trembled and drank the water as Anna wrapped the blanket around her until it engulfed her entire body.

Finally she cried, her breath flooding through her with relief as she squeezed her eyes tight, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She took heavy breaths and sobbed against the warm material, her body stilling as she stopped shaking and she soaked the edge of the quilt with her tears.

"Lady Mary, what can I do." Anna knelt down at Mary's side and grasped her hand tightly, frowning and worried.

"Nothing, I feel better." Her voice was hoarse and deep and she was absolutely drained. "Sybil's leaving with Branson, you know. Maybe just talk to me."

"Alright, of course." Anna stood and put a hand on her shoulder. "What is Lord Grantham saying?"

"He's blessed them. I think everyone feels like they've had a revelation with Lavinia's death." Another cry burst out at random and Mary covered her mouth, shaking her head, ashamed with her behaviour.

"It's important for Lady Sybil to be happy." Anna offered and Mary nodded, a fresh wave of emotion spearing through her – Yes, he may be the Irish revolutionary chauffeur but if Sybil was happy then bless, bless, _bless_ her.

"I'm so sorry, milady." Anna whispered.

"No, I am. What a sight I am. You have the world on your shoulders and here I am feeling sorry for myself."

"If I may, this is one time where you most certainly do not feel sorry for yourself and you must know that. You feel sorry for everyone suffering all around you and are powerless in it all."

"Powerless, am I ever," Mary blotted her nose on a handkerchief offered by Anna and wrapped the blanket tightly around her, trying not to be touched by a lick of cold air. "I can't believe this happened."

"Nobody can."

"How is Carson coming?"

"Much, much better. Nearly back on his feet."

"I'm so glad." Mary said and then, "It's all really over now..." Anna fluffed her pillows and Mary fell back against them, atop her duvet but snug in the warm quilt, her shoes still on her feet. "None of we three will be happy now. Lavinia's took it all with her, rest her soul."

* * *

"How heartened am I to see you this morning!" Robert declared as Mary entered the dining room, wearing a light grey blouse and dark navy skirt (as close to black as was acceptable for the time of day). "I can't tell you how many days I've taken breakfast alone."

"What of Edith and Sybil?"

"Yes but like your Mama they have been late risers."

"Ah. We've all had the stuffing knocked out of us. How are you Papa?" Mary asked and she found the aftershocks of mourning almost similar to getting over a bad illness. Leaving your room for the first time in days to attempt to take a meal on a queasy, empty stomach, a groggy, thick head. Her limbs were heavy and clumsy, and she was slow moving.

She drank orange juice and then tea and found her insides warmed considerably with just a little substance and hoped an entire meal would have her feeling normal again.

"As well as can be. And you my dear?"

"I'm managing."

"I never expected we would all be so hard hit." Her Papa sighed and he was a little unkempt, too, but was steadier than Mary – She had fallen to pieces, for what it was worth.

"Nor I." Mary nibbled on toast and found her appetite returning, the constant gnawing over the last few days easing as she ate more.

"I'm going to see Matthew today, I haven't since the funeral. Isobel is away for a few days, she put it off as long as possible...Anyway, would you like to come along?"

"No." Her father folded up his paper at her response and raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have any words for him I could pass on? I'm sure he could use comfort."

"No." Mary repeated and clutched her juice, the cold crystal feeling nice against her burning palm.

Robert sighed again and looked at her in a familiar, scolding way – One that had not quite faded from use since her youth.

"My dear he's been through tragedy, you can't be at odds with him now, surely?"

Mary was careful in her expression, decidedly neutral and passive, as she replied.

"I care so much for what he's going through that I've been sick with it myself, Papa. I just don't think he would find me any comfort right now."

"I don't know what's happened between you but I know that now is not the time for it. You must mend soon, Mary."

"I'm sure we'll come around, yes."

Sybil came down not too long after and proceeded to argue with their father over breakfast. She would leave tomorrow, she said, off to meet Tom in Ireland, eager to settle in with his mother, to find a job (there had been a posting she had called about and was guaranteed the position if she could arrive within the week). It had been over two weeks since Lavinia's wake and Mary figured there was no point of Sybil lingering at Downton if she would just be unhappy and feel useless. Mary wished uselessness on no one and at least Sybil had the skills to be otherwise.

"I see no need for you to _move_ there before you are _married_ to the man, Sybil! I blessed you, certainly, but I want no daughter of mine living in sin."

"It won't be sin, Papa! You can't retract your approval if something isn't as you please – I will leave on good or bad terms but I'd prefer good. I was so encouraged when you blessed us, please don't knock me down again."

Mary knew her father was torn, for Sybil held a particular place in his heart – In which she was argumentative and the most wild of his girls but he could also deny her nothing and even when they disagreed he was always the one to break first. Sybil was stubborn in the most darling way and Robert was unsuspecting but also unsurprised when she ended up the one to flee the nest first.

"Sybil, darling, you are braver and better than any of us could hope to be, even in love. Papa, you must let at least someone in this family be happy." Mary struck a chord, reminding him that even he had been unhappy in the years of war and had made his own mistakes, and Mary saw her own sadness reflected in her father's eyes and that was it, he relented.

"I'll arrange the train later. It just saddens me so to have my youngest fly the coop, not even a wedding first..." Ah Robert Crawley was powerless in the face of his daughters, truly, and Sybil leaned over the table to kiss her father happily on the cheek.

Mary felt a little emotional herself watching the exchange between her father and Sybil and she wasn't sure if she was jealous of Sybil's love life or profession – Mary never yearned for work, never wanted to be a nurse (outside of how she helped Matthew) but maybe there was some greater purpose in life she was missing out on and it would be too late when she realized. Oh, she just did not know.

Sybil left on the train the next day, so early in the morning that it was still dark out and Mary and Edith bade goodbye to their baby sister in their night gowns and braids, bleary-eyed and husky-voiced, standing at the bottom of the staircase.

Edith had her say and returned to her room, then Mary turned to Sybil, for whom she felt so protective and connected (and so often outsmarted by).

"Will you be okay?" Sybil asked, eyes so blue like both their Mama and Papa's, and Mary grasped her hand, smiling.

"Oh darling, I'm meant to ask you that!"

"Yes – and I will, I'll be better than that, Mary – and you? Will you be?"

"I will try mightily." Mary kissed her sister's cheek and smoothed Sybil's hair under the hat she wore. Oh where had the time gone? Where was it still going? How was it possible she was so ready to leave Downton behind?

"Look after everyone, I know the Crawley's are all so strong but we've never taken change well!"

"Indeed we have not. Send my wishes along to Branson. Be safe and happy, Sybil." Mary had not warmed to calling him Tom and was not sure she thought he was best for Sybil but it wasn't up to her, was it? She could hate him if she wanted but still hoped Sybil was happy with him and that he would be damned if he ever hurt her.

"I will. Goodbye, Mary."

It was strange to watch Sybil leave without any of them, alone in the motor, off to find her fiancé in another country in the dawn at Spring – Oh, it was romantic, truthfully. Mary turned back to bed before her parents did, knowing they weren't wholly comfortable with it and not wanting to invade on their private difficulties.

Of any of them, she thought, Sybil would be fine and it was because she was a combination of sweet and strong, honest and careful, fiery but reasonable. She had her own will and beliefs and for that she would succeed even if the world failed.

Mary could at least take heart in that, that someone had left Downton in one piece (it seemed so few of them did those days).

"Are you very well, milady?"

"Oh, yes Carson, quite." Mary had just taken the first step when Carson emerged from outside, giving her parents privacy as well in their goodbyes to Sybil.

"I'm glad to see Lady Sybil off. It's very early, I'm sure you can sleep more." Carson's deep voice rumbled and Mary couldn't help but smile. He was everything comforting to her, always had been.

"Perhaps, yes. Sleep has certainly not escaped me these last weeks."

"We react in our own ways. Grief touches us all differently."

Mary felt a shiver run through her and she frowned without realizing the emotion wracking through her.

"Well it has taken a nasty toll this time, I'm afraid. We're all so very changed."

Carson looked up at her to where she stood on the stair and she knew he was seeing her as she had been as a child – Sniffling in her nightgown, clenching her palms and struggling to keep her features smooth, blink her emotions away. She had not changed much in his eyes and it made her affection for him swell. She had changed so much to so many others but Carson was constant and good and probably too loyal to her.

She felt the restlessness inside her from the last few weeks ebb away, a warm calm spreading over her, slow and heavy like a cover. It was a morning much like this one, the house dark and dawn creeping in, that Matthew Crawley had visited before returning to war and the presence he brought was so like the one she felt standing there with Carson. Oh, she wondered what it meant and was sure that...that Matthew was as great of a comfort, as close as a companion as Carson had become over the years. She thought that was very important, for there were few people (hardly none) to understand her troubles in such a way and try to calm them. Most thought she was responsible for her own problems (she was) and let her handle them on her own. But how nice it was to have these men in her life to offer her the sweetest reassurances even when she scarcely deserved them.

Mary hoped so very much that some day that Matthew would be that comfort to her again. She hoped she would think of him and not feel sick with guilt, not feel ravaged with heartache at his harsh words, his unforgiving, cold, deadened gaze. She wanted for the easy days when she wheeled his chair and he begrudgingly accepted her help but by the end of the day would have her playing cards and laughing. She wanted for the feeling she had, the bursting emotions, when he had walked again after a decided fate and then danced with her, kissed her gently for the second time ever...

At least, until then, she had this man.

"You've told me before that you were never down for long – I know so. This is the very thing we must live with, carry heavy in our hearts. You're only just beginning."

"You know just what to say, for I have felt so very...expired, as if I'll never get up again."

"It astounds me," He boomed, hands clasped behind his back. "how the young reflect on their mortality. Miss Swire has expired, William Mason has, too, but you're flesh and blood, milady, no expiration in sight!"

Mary smiled again, tugging her braid habitually, and swooped down to kiss Carson's cheek.

"You are my grandest champion, dear Carson. Goodnight," She laughed and he smiled, wild eyebrows raised. "Or I suppose – Good morning."

* * *

_Summer 1919_

* * *

Summer found them again and the family took the Season at their house in London, spending some time with Rosamund, travelling to the Brighton coast to visit the beach (a pleasure that Mary had missed the last few years, as their vacations were sporadic and the war seemed to make summertime hardly exist).

She longed for the coast sometimes, the ocean, and it was strange to Mary for she had grown up landlocked in the country, far from the city, the beach...Green lawns and trees, ponds and flowers were her scenery but oh the ocean...

It was, she supposed, for typical reasons she loved it so – What an escape, what a place full of potential and renewal, energy in the waves, comfort in the breeze. The sand was born anew with the changing tides and the same water never touched the same places twice – What a concept, she thought, to roll across the beach, experience something new each day, to touch and form the land around you, gently but powerfully...until enough years have passed and you could see your impact, know that you were a force of nature with proof of that. Oh to be the waves. It was enlivening and remarkable, an atmosphere she was so foreign to but so connected with. The seaside air tasted so different from anything she had known and she got gooseflesh just thinking of the warm sun, the footprints along the water's edge.

Perhaps she felt just a little more free by the sea, a little less trapped to know there was something as vast and endless as an ocean out there – She lived in a world where wonders like this existed and if she could be anything and go anywhere, she would be a sea creature and she would go to the water.

Mary felt positively inspired and youthful there, someone she had once been when she was but a teenager, and it never lost it's specialness as the summers went on – if anything, it was all more meaningful to her. The more submerged she was at Downton, the more she wished she was submerged in and surrounded by the salt water, weightless and floating and free.

It was a place she wanted to experience with those she loved (and she was thankful to share this place with her family) and her first thought was not to bring Carlisle here or that they should perhaps honeymoon somewhere warm and ocean-hugged...

She thought of Matthew...and if he had ever seen places like this...If during the war he ever saw the Atlantic ocean and if he ever touched the cool water, if it meant anything during war, if it meant anything at all to him...

Even when she was hurt by him he was always her first thought.

There had been an argument between Edith and Granny that had amused them most of their trip to the shore, Edith admiring a pair of tourists and their tanned, naked skin in swim costumes and they in their dresses and parasols. Violet preached staying out of the sun and Edith bemoaned how nice it would be to look brown and alive for once, not porcelain and delicate. Edith threatened the rest of the trip to sunbathe and Violet thought it was all preposterous, this was not how a Lady such as she behaved! Mostly it was Edith antagonizing their grandmother out of boredom and Violet missing the old ways before war, when Lady's stayed their place and didn't dream of more. Sybil running off had scandalized their Granny probably more than it had Robert and she would wax theatrics over her heart not being able to handle so much excitement from the ever-surprising Crawley family.

Sybil's wedding was the end of July, when Mary and Carlisle's had planned to be before Lavinia's death, and the family would leave from London and spend the last of the Season there (their Papa of course would return home, childishly refusing to attend his own daughter's wedding).

The wedding was not going to be a grand, lavish affair but it would be wholesome and it would be important. Small and intimate and full of love – that was what mattered, did it not?

Mary had never spent much time in Ireland but it was beautiful and lush during the summertime. The sun nearly shone while they were there and the hotel they stayed at was small but the rooms were ornate. Mary so enjoyed seeing Sybil in her element and was glad when she stayed over at the hotel with them the night before the wedding.

Isobel came to the wedding, as did Rosamund, a few other relatives and friends. Her Papa would not break on this one thing toward Sybil and truthfully Mary was surprised but Sybil was stubborn and never asked for him to, either. Had she asked, Mary thought...Oh, their Papa would have swam there if she had asked. But they were both being stubborn and that was that. Their Mama said it was sad but the wedding should be about what was best for Sybil and if she wanted a happy day – well, best for Sybil was Papa securely back at Downton.

Sybil really seemed happy and settled and full of purpose. No one could deny that Sybil glowed as she never had before and Mary was moved at the ceremony, touched by the way Branson gazed at her sister, full of love and longing and meaning. Mary felt jaded afterwards when she was sure no one had ever looked at her like that (most certainly not Carlisle).

On the night before the wedding they lounged at the hotel and Matthew was brought into discussion.

"How is Matthew, Isobel? We haven't seen much of him since the spring. How is his back coming?" Cora asked, curious concern etched across her features, eyes blue and wide as always.

"Quite well, thank you. I tell him just how lucky he is...the advancements they've made since I was a nurse...Without therapy on his back he would not be near as mobile and pain free as he will come to be. We are blessed."

Mary was very pointed in her conversation with Edith, quiet musings about Sybil's wedding dress and veil, whether the home Branson had found would be comfortable enough...But Mary was very good at multi-tasking, so she also listened to them speak about Matthew.

"We're so glad to hear, after all he's been through at least he will recover and feel normal again."

"I hope that's the case, the best thing for him right now is focusing on his health but he's so very morose all of the time."

Violet interjected. "Matters of the heart always take longer to heal than any physical ailment."

Mary cast a sideways glance at her grandmother. Violet, too, was good at multi-tasking and spoke to Mary as much as she did Isobel.

"Well, let us hope he does so quickly. Until then he seems quite determined in getting back to work..."

Mary drifted out of the conversation and was both sad and smug to hear he was morose – Of course Matthew wasn't going to move on quickly from it but he had brought her down so low with him she was glad he hadn't crawled up out of it before she had. She was glad and terribly sad...it had been months since she laid eyes on him, she hardly knew him anymore.

If nothing else it was good to hear his name and know he was still a living, breathing man...she was beginning to feel like the two years during war when he had not returned to them...and she forgot the colour of his eyes...and dreamed of his death but death was in and around them now, no need to dream of it.

So very close, so very far.

"Are you very upset Sybil's getting married and not you and Carlisle?" Edith's turn in conversation drew Mary back in and she raised her eyebrows at her sister.

"_No_."

"You're in no hurry, are you." Mary wasn't sure what Edith's point was, whether she was trying to bother her or offer her an ear.

"Not really, no. Why should we be, I suppose – Richard's not anymore either. We're at a bit of an impasse."

Mary reflected on when Matthew found the ability to walk again...and she stood across the room watching as he wheeled to the mantle and pulled himself up, gaining quiet applause from the family gathered in the room and Richard look at her and asked if she was still in love with Matthew Crawley. And this was when Lavinia was safely with them, this was when everything was still as it was to be, and Mary looked at him, the man to whom she was engaged, and was very good at what she did, quite easily appraised Richard and told him that no, she did not – for would she ever admit to loving a man who preferred someone else?

There was no satisfaction for Richard in that response and they both knew it. Lavinia dying had only prolonged the inevitable...they were in a strange purgatory...Richard as good as knew that Mary preferred no one over Matthew but now that Lavinia was gone they were stuck...There was no chance for Mary and Matthew, no innocence anymore and Richad had Mary right where he wanted her...stuck. They were stuck with each other. He had won but under the worst, darkest circumstances. How long could he go on, knowing she must love another man, knowing she was only with him as security of her Pamuk-stained honour?

Something had to give.

* * *

The first time Matthew saw Mary again, unbeknownst to her, was well after they had returned from Ireland and were settling back into routine after the summertime. It was late August, after breakfast time, and it had rained the night before. It was at Lavinia's graveside. She wore a grey skirt and navy coat, the collars of a cream coloured blouse visible beneath. The edges of her skirt were dark – damp from the long, wet grass. Her hands were folded at her front, a dark handkerchief clutched there but apparently unneeded as she was frowning deeply and her face was dry of tears. Matthew had never seen her there before (for she had never been) and had Mary been aware of his presence she would have seen his face fall, crumpling in on itself as if he aged twenty years in the moment. Creases, folds, and tension weighing it down. She would have hardly recognized him had she seen him, too (and she didn't, but for his retreating back and she could not know it was his).

Mary laid a vivid bouquet of flowers across the grave and she thought it was so strange how the mud had grown up and grass covered the site – Almost as if it had always been there, as if it had never been disturbed. What a testament, she thought, to nature and the power it held over all things. Lavinia's graveside was hardly her place but Mary felt the need for closure with Lavinia, aside from the words Matthew had said. Matthew could say and think what he wanted about them and the triangle (square! Sir Richard!) they had been involved in but Lavinia meant something separately to Mary. She had been a friend, even if Mary had never been wholly honest about her feelings for Matthew...She had been more honest than she was with most people. They shared a bond not only with Matthew but with Sir Richard – The devious man held information on each of them and they were not that different, Mary and Lavinia. Lavinia had done what she did for her family and so too had Mary...Was it all that unexpected that it would end up the three of them, Mary still carrying feelings for Matthew? She and Lavinia obviously had similar values and appreciated similar strengths.

Maybe Mary had been the stronger of the two but what had that gained her? Nothing, really. She was alive whereas Lavinia was not but had Mary come down with the disease her strength would not have prevented the same from happening. Lavinia, the supposed weaker of the two, held a clear conscience and was insightful in ways many were not. She was in charge of herself, and she was very aware of things around her and perhaps she had been heartbroken before she died but not made weak because of it. The fact about it was that Matthew behaved as if he were Lavinia's saviour, the best thing for her, the only man who she could ever love but...Mary was certain the young woman would have decided she could do better than Matthew!

Matthew would spend his days guilty and loathing his every waking breath (and his dreams would have him loathe those breaths, too) for he broke her heart and cut down her livelihood and she died simply for there was no reason to live without him (so he thought). But Lavinia was smarter than he gave her credit for. Of any of them she had the most self-worth, she had the most belief in her life and future and she would never have hung on to a man who did not love her most of all. She would have guaranteed the wedding be cancelled, she would have done so with dignity and grace but she would not have accepted Matthew's gallantry – Perhaps she would have appreciated it but she would have turned him out on his ear. Lavinia Swire, Mary knew, would not be the type to sit back and allow a man to marry her who had wronged her and confessed he was only doing it out of obligation to her sacrifice.

No, Lavinia had loved Matthew and would not marry him for those reasons so she would have had found someone else to love and Matthew would have been the one left heartbroken.

Mary had thought about it long and hard, actually, and it was helping her rise above her grief, her guilt, her crushed soul. Mary was pragmatic, if nothing else, and she was down for longer than normal with this blow, with death seeping in from every corner but she decided to step back and think about it. And she thought about how Lavinia had sensed Matthew and Mary's relationship, despite their awkward efforts to suffocate it, and she had been reasonable, thankful it was put to rest but respectful of what had existed between them. Lavinia would not have been bitter or resentful, she would have just wanted to put herself and Matthew to rest so she could leave – All she wanted was for them all to live easily, happily and if they could not do that as Matthew and Lavinia, Mary and Richard, she would end it. She would not begrudge them, perhaps even pity them for the mess of their lives and Lavinia would have left, meekly perhaps, but she would have found someone better.

Lavinia was not blind, this Mary knew (but maybe Matthew did not) and she knew the world must have better people than Matthew Crawley for her to love (and who would love her so, for Matthew loved Mary but still loved Lavinia in death! She was a woman with a hold on men, Mary had felt).

Certainly, it was speculation, certainly it was easy to wish that was how things would have gone...but no one knew for sure...Mary didn't know for sure, as deductive as she considered herself to be...but she could hope and she could hate herself alongside Matthew and she could try to feel better.

She felt so touched with gratitude, so full of appreciation for Lavinia as she looked down at her stone. Life would have been different if Mary had not known her, and for the worse – She deserved to be alive and Mary was not the type to think "better me than her" like Matthew was but she was the type to desperately question the world because of it.

Matthew, as he watched Mary, cane in hand, a black pocket square at his breast, would bemoan that even in death these two women of his were hopelessly connected and he had deserved neither of them.

* * *

The first time Mary saw Matthew it was September. Her life went on without him and Mary went on with it – She felt rather independent again, for while there was no Matthew there so too was no Richard. Oh how committed, she thought, what a man who must value and love her so if he all but disappeared when the threat to his happiness was gone. Matthew was miserable, Mary was, too, Lavinia was dead – What did Richard have to worry about? Mary and Matthew were honourable people, he thought, they couldn't _possibly_ find each other again with Lavinia's death clouding them...This was it, this was the final nail in Mary and Matthew Crawley and he could breathe easier and not work so hard to ensure Mary was his. Good, it was done, life and death and it was over – They were damned people who would wallow in misery until Richard would marry Mary.

They couldn't _possibly_ find each other again, she and Matthew...And Richard was not usually wrong.

Mary had been for a ride and it was something she clung to in the year post-war and during her engagement to Richard. When she would see her own unenthusiastic eyes reflected back at her she would need to ride...need to feel that again. So, she had been for a ride and was almost late to dinner, dusk falling rapidly around them. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright and wet from the wind that had whipped around her. She wore grey jodhpurs and a black riding blazer, a tall hat snug on her head (she had looked very similar to the first time Matthew had met her at Crawley House all those years ago).

She strode into the house, tugging her gloves off and smiling bright at Carson who, all affection, accepted her cap as she finger-combed her strewn hair. Her boots clomped loudly through the hall and she slowed as she saw her Papa standing with Matthew.

"Milady, Mr. Crawley came through this afternoon...His Lordship is extending a dinner invitation." Carson warned Mary in a low voice and she skirted to the edge of the entryway, standing still for a moment, waiting to see if her father had noticed her.

"Mary, my dear?" Robert's voice, asking for her presence, and so it was with thanks to Carson that she approached the two Crawley men.

"Hello." She greeted, still a bit breathless from the rush of the ride.

"How was it?"

"Wonderful. Diamond needed it as much as I." Mary came to stand a few feet away from her father and was careful to keep smiling at him, so nervous to meet Matthew's eyes for the first time in a season (literally, a season had come and gone since they laid eyes on each other).

"Good to hear, are you changing for dinner?"

"Yes I'm going to ring for Anna and pull on a skirt."

"I'm just convincing Matthew to stay – your Granny and Isobel are here – he should stay, shouldn't he?" Of her Papa she knew he had no real ulterior motives to standing there talking with Matthew while beckoning her to join. Perhaps he wished they would be on good terms again but he didn't really know what went wrong so he couldn't begin to plot to set it right.

"Certainly he should." Mary's voice was not unlike herself and she was glad for that – and if it was an octave higher it could be pinned on her exertion from riding.

She had not expected to hear him speak.

"Really? Do you mean it?" It was funny, perhaps, that Mary was the one to look at Matthew, her mouth agape, as she stood in her riding gear, instead of he looking at her with the expression of when they first met.

And to look at him was to see him and oh how she tried not to see him.

The exhilaration from her afternoon out was wearing off and her clear head was clouded again as she looked at him, her bright eyes were guarded and eyebrows high, her skin tight and felt a bit wind burned. She was tired. Her knees were stiff. Looking at Matthew brought her to reality whereas riding her horse was the purest, greatest pleasure. She wished he was not there.

"Mary I'm going to find your Mama, please be quick, we'll be going in soon." Robert walked off to do as he said.

Oh of course her thick-headed Papa, leaving her standing so far from Matthew it hardly looked like they could be talking, when she wanted to be anywhere but.

"I said certainly, so I mean it." She responded to Matthew and was unblinking and taken aback. She reminded herself that just because he had not spoken to her in months, it did not mean he lost the ability altogether.

"Are there any stipulations if I do stay?" He was speaking, she knew he was, but she could hardly identify the sound of his voice, could hardly acknowledge that this was somehow Matthew.

"None that we haven't already self-imposed!" Her eyebrows were stuck high on her face and she knew she looked incredulous, sounded the same, but she had him writ off as ghost along with the others and here he was.

Matthew did not laugh or scoff or anything, just stood there. He just stood there and she couldn't take in a thing about him. He was a blur to her, a present blur, but still one. She supposed he was still blonde and blue-eyed but nothing registered.

"Mary." Matthew said her name, _he had not said her name in months_, and the physical jolt it gave her went straight to the heart. She felt he was vile and stupid but also felt he must still be the same Matthew. She did not look into his eyes, was focused on his nose, could not recall what he wore that day or whether he looked well, thin or fat, pale or tan, bald or blonde. He was a blind spot to her now.

"Please excuse me."

She left him there, as well, and went upstairs to change and he, in fact, did not stay for dinner.

* * *

There was a visit from Richard, between his absence in the summer and his presence that would be over the winter holidays – that so confirmed to Mary that they would never come to fruition. It was never the realization she wanted to have, for even when she was scared of him or repulsed by him, she always knew she would marry him. She never expected otherwise.

But this one was it and it would set the stage for her attitude toward him over the coming months, her attitude that would just finish them off so bitterly.

She had not seen him during the summer, or any of the months after Lavinia's death at all. It was not that she missed him but she supposed she should have – and truthfully was a bit putout over his sudden disinterest in her. She knew it was all because his life in London was more important to him and having to spend so much time at Downton keeping a hawk's eye watch over her and Matthew had bothered him. He was freed up now, reassured that Mary could only be his and so he returned to a normal pace of life, writing her letters, calling every couple of weeks, but keeping his distance.

So when he showed up, boasting a new car and stories of his investments paying off, Mary was practically sweet to him. She held his arm and kissed his mouth and listened raptly to all of his stories, though he seemed to have no room for her own. He dismissed her rediscovered love of riding, bored with her mention of Diamond's recent ailments, argumentative about Sybil living in Ireland, married to the chauffeur. Mary was coming to realize she was for his entertainment and conversation, not the other way around. He wanted little to do in her life. Even after the fake Patrick Crawley had come by and Richard hadn't known the back story to it all...afterwards he hadn't wanted to know. Yes it's all well and good he dismissed and his only concerns were newspapers and Matthew Crawley.

Mary feared their engagement and his time around her family had not done him well. He was not the man she was initially taken with, his impatience with her and loud opinions were grating her nerves. He looked so smug when Matthew wasn't at any of the dinners he took at Downton and then argued with both her father and Granny on political issues. Mary was moritifed.

"What is with you? You show up after months and were certainly not shy about starting up conflict over dinner!"

"Mary my dear I am so very tired of catering to your elite family with polite conversation that it is nice to argue. You asked me to leave in the spring and I didn't think I should come back until you asked me that, too – Which you never."

"Oh Richard." Mary very nearly rolled her eyes but instead narrowed them. They had gone through without the rest of the family to take a private drink but Mary was wishing they would all come through. "First we were in mourning, next we were in London and then Ireland – I can't invite myself to your home in London! I wrote we were planning vacation and heard nothing until we were back from Ireland."

"Ah, I see. Well, my apologies Lady Mary. Perhaps the time apart will ignite some spark between us?"

"A spark in the form of disagreement, I'm _sure_."

"I've been very patient, you can't deny that."

"Yes, Richard, patient and absent. _You_ can't deny that you don't seem nearly as keen to marry since the spring. What was I to take away from that?"

"I can't force it on you, can I? The pressure is admittedly less since Miss Swire died, so why not give you some time to decide on a wedding date, I thought. I'm not ashamed to say it, I was very glad to get back to London after that fiasco was over."

"You are tremendously insensitive." Mary drained her wine glass and met his stoic gaze.

"And you ridiculous! I don't know why you think anyone would want to marry you, the way you've treated me..."

"Not just anyone should want to marry me! Only you." Mary hissed, hands flailing while balled in fists.

"And I do."

"It's so apparent where this went wrong..." Mary said very quietly and Richard's eyes were slits, the corners of his mouth turned down.

"Where's that?"

"I should not have asked for your help...you should not have asked for my hand in return for the favour. This may have had a chance if a business proposition wasn't apart of it." She made to turn on her heel, aware she had as good as prodded a sleeping giant – She probably should have left Richard as he was, but how could she when he behaved so? When he showed up and was bored by her, had been absent from her, only cared to marry her as some sort of prize won.

He grasped her arm, as he had before, some innate need for physical contact within him as he made his point. By grabbing at her his points were much more like threats, even if he did not yell, even if he spoke so quietly.

Mary's nostrils flared and lips pursed but she did not wince, though she could have.

"You talk as if this could end. We've had this conversation before, have we not? There's no chance of it."

"Must you always put your hands on me! I'm not talking as if it's going to end, _Richard_...I'm talking as if it has gone wrong and it has...but that doesn't mean it's going to end." She wrenched her arm from his grasp and took a step back, openly glaring at him now.

"Oh oh ho, you're putting me in a nasty position, aren't you?"

"Oh aren't I just! I'm not asking or suggesting anything, only that I feel a bit damaged from all that's taken place and so unwanted by you."

She watched him and she was not mean or cold but quite sincere, his harsh frown fading back to void of any readable emotion. Perhaps he had realized he _didn't _want her...and only continued with it all because he was not a man who was roped into something like she roped him into, costing him _so much money _in the process, and then thrown over. He was not going to lose the one good thing about a shoddy situation but maybe she wasn't even a good thing to him, anymore. Maybe they were both realizing the same things, that the positives of their arrangement were cancelled out by the negatives. For Mary, she believed more each day she could weather the Pamuk storm but not the wrath of Richard the rest of her life. Richard, perhaps he believed he actually could find someone to love him for more than this...The shine on Mary Crawley was fast fading for him and just because he didn't want to lose, for he never had, that did not mean he wanted to keep her.

But he had spent time on her...and she on him...and were she to break it off with him, Pamuk would rise again and the fact she knew Richard would watch, assured he was right about her and Matthew all along, put her ill at ease. If Richard broke it off with her, he would lose the one touch at the traditional ways he had...he was a proud man but would he be taken seriously by anyone with less than a Lady at his side? Would anyone respect him, the way he made his name and his living, with less than Lady Mary? He was not fearful for the public but he was desperate for success and Mary Crawley was the greatest someone could succeed (on paper, at least).

Things did not end that visit, of course. Richard was set on mending things, changing his behaviour, while Mary was simply over it. She didn't care. If he wasn't going to give up than nor should she but it was exhausting. She was so very, very tired of it all and how bleak the rest of her life would be spent with him was coming into detail – which scared her, for she was much more comfortable when it was a far-off objective but next came marriage and she didn't know how to do that, to get there.

Issues like his trying to bribe Anna lingered, things that made Mary uneasy and upset, certain nothing genuine could grow from what they had. He would never trust her, never believe in her and she couldn't blame him, at her core.

She wouldn't, she wouldn't marry him. She didn't know _how_ she wouldn't marry him, and she was still terrified of the repercussions to come, with no idea how to fix anything swirling on around her...but she could feel it in her bones, this was not the end of her story.

* * *

_October 1919_

* * *

The third time was the charm. Mary's beloved October and she was in her walking tweeds, down by the lake, standing on the small dock. Small ripples spread out as dying leaves fell atop the calm surface. It was appropriate that she spent autumn beside a small, stationary body of water while she spent summertime by the ocean. This was much more the speed she was at, water landlocked and still, waiting for the next rain to offer it any relief. She breathed in the gentle autumn air and it smelled like nature and death, all wrapped together. It was cool but fragrant and her green, velvet hat kept her ears warm, brown leather gloves on her hands. Mary felt the further in she was with Richard, the more the outdoors calmed her.

It had been nearly a year since the war ended...over a year since Matthew had come back to them injured, a fallen soldier. It had been over six months since Lavinia died, nearly as many since Bates was arrested...So much had gone on within this small world, it was amazing it had not imploded.

"Hello."

How could it be?

She could feel him approaching and folded her hands daintily in front of her, rather than shoved in her pockets like they had been, and gathered herself up to turn around.

Oh to face him.

Her skirt swayed as she turned and her boots were loud on the wooden boards. A tendril of hair blew free from her hat as the wind lazily played with the finds of autumn and she took a long _whoosh_ of breath as she finally looked at him, finally saw him.

Matthew. He carried a small cloth bag and was dressed in a rumpled suit but a long camel coloured outer coat made him look more outdoorsy. The collar was turned up around his neck, a newsboy cap on his head, gold chain of his pocket watch dangling – Although he carried his cane, he looked well, this she could see.

"I've brought along some tea and apples."

"Matthew, I'm a Lady I don't chomp on apples like a horse." Mary was shocked by how easily this rapport came back, after a handful of words spoken in months, and she could tease him just as if it had been yesterday.

"Perhaps you will if you're hungry." He grinned cheekily and knelt down as he joined her on the platform, rummaging through the bag. He pulled out a Dewar flask and two mugs, offering her to hold one as he poured the steaming liquid into the first. She accepted the full mug and then he poured his own.

Her breathing was quicker and her mouth open a bit as she welcomed the cooler air into her lungs. She did not know for sure why she was still standing there, did not know why he was acting so familiar and she wondered if she had been knocked unconscious and forgotten they had settled their differences and that was why he was here. That could be the only explanation, couldn't it? Who just walks out of the blue and offers a picnic when you haven't spoken in months? And the last you did speak you were cursed, both of your souls for eternity?

Matthew stood again and was tall above her, his cane laid on the ground (for he did not so much need it anymore, just was attached to it as the last vestige of his time with Lavinia), his blonde hair still blonde, tucked beneath the cap, the brim which shadowed his face.

The cool breeze stung her eyes, as did the resonant emotion that came with him, and she hardly blinked. She had not seen him this way since before the war. He had not smiled so easily since before he had gunned men down, and long before he lost Lavinia.

"How did you know where I'd be?"

"I didn't but Carson was sure if you weren't out on Diamond you'd be down here, so I traipsed down in hopes. Though he seemed loath to share that with me."

Mary smiled. Carson, her protector. Yes, he was likely no great fan of Matthew Crawley's lately.

"In hopes? How possibly in hopes after,-"

"Sit with me?"

She was too stunned to turn away even after all this time and hurt had festered. And festered it had for she felt infected and forgotten.

It was boyish and endearing that he perched on the edge of the short dock and his legs dangled there, boots just over the water. He craned his neck up, trying to see past his hat brim, taking in the pale blue sky, streaked with grey. Off came the cap, tossed aside and he raked his fingers through his hair and she stood behind him like an immobile something or other. It was too much to take in, messy hair dented from the cap, blonde and light as it always had been.

"I can't." She said finally, finding herself buckling a bit in his presence but still clinging to all of the anger she'd felt.

"Please."

"I don't know why you're here all of a sudden. It's not okay that you are. Write a letter, politely ask for a word while we're at dinner but don't find me, don't force something on me."

"Mary, I'm only trying to make amends,-" He turned to look at her, leaning on his hand to see her as she still stood behind him.

"You poisoned me! You _damned_ me and I've felt it, Matthew."

"Mary." His voice was weak now and he made to stand but she shook her head, holding a hand out.

"Please stay away, I need a moment." She was tired of yelling and arguing and while Matthew may have deserved it more than Carlisle did, she decided to relent. She couldn't waste the energy yelling to gain nothing, fighting a losing battle. She'd surrender and listen to him and then see if she still wanted to yell.

So, Mary took a shaky breath and shaky steps to where he sat and folded herself down to the platform. He looked wary but settled back down himself and picked up his mug. She sipped her tea and he gulped at his, letting out a satisfied "ahh" and looking over at her.

"This is spiked, isn't it?" It warmed her more than a normal drink of tea would, burning her cheeks in a familiar way.

"Wee bit of brandy."

From his pocket he took out the apples and tossed one to her, shining his own on his lapels and Mary just stared at him, eyebrows knit together but no other signs of distress apparent on her face. She played along for now, her first outburst fading as they tried to get comfortable around the other again.

He bit into his apple just as her stomach leaped with hunger, so she too took a delicate bite. He was finished in a few short bites, wiped his mouth on his palm and laughed to himself as he threw the core into the lake, pleased with the distance and splash it made.

She felt so plain and ordinary in that moment, throwing her own apple into the lake after a few little bites. She settled for the tea instead that burned down her throat and brought some life back into her. The brandy warmed her incredibly and she felt the familiar tingle in her cheeks.

Matthew smiled tentatively when she threw the core and she wasn't sure she had seen so much out of him in _years_.

"I never thanked you. I realized I had never once, _not once_, thanked you and then it was too late. Not only had I not thanked you...by then, I had tossed you to the wolves...laid guilt on you for something so out of your control...I realized I couldn't have made you feel well, I knew it. But I felt so unwell myself I couldn't...I couldn't begin to apologize let alone thank you for all of it. It spun so wildly from me, Mary."

She watched ahead as he spoke, while the ripples faded from their tosses and she tried to listen to him, to take it all in and understand it even though it came out of left field.

"So are you thanking me? And what for?" She did not trust herself to see his eyes unguarded from his hat. So blue they must still be. Those were always her downfall.

"Nursing me back from the brink. Not only from my deathbed but from that self-pity, too. You had no obligation for any of it but you did both. I thought for some reason it was Lavinia who had done so much for me – and she did, she most definitely did – but in it all you escaped me. You changed who you were to spend time with me, to haul me in and out of bed, feed me and read with me...Bathed me in the beginning! Carried my damned vomit, I can't..." He shook his head and hair flopped across his forehead and this was so much the Matthew she remembered from a lifetime ago that she had to suppress a gasp.

She could almost literally feel the gaping in her heart being stitched back together, the thread pulled through snug, bringing it all back as one.

"Thank you, Mary."

"You're assaulting me with kindness, how am I supposed to find a moment to continue arguing if you keep on like this."

"That's the idea, I think, I can't give you a chance to turn me out again."

Very desperately Mary wanted to touch him. Those months he was wounded she had free reign to touch him, so innocuous and healing, and she had missed it. She remembered the warm skin of his back and neck, his soft hair in her fingers, the hard muscles between his shoulders. She remembered him moving and flexing and existing right there beneath her hands as she helped him and that was something, wasn't it? To feel him come back to life, almost, in her very own palms.

"I never needed to be thanked, Matthew. I would have done more but you weren't mine to do it for. I alienated Carlisle over those months but I had tunnel vision for you. I couldn't have handled seeing anyone else do it – I wouldn't have believed it was really happening."

He seemed to calm, less excitable than when he first showed up to her quiet moment by the lake and looked pensive. She imagined him remembering those long months between his injury and Lavinia returning, when it was just the two of them against the world.

"I have to apologize, too." He was quiet, far less confident in this speech than the first one and Mary felt her blood boil again – Some probably caused by the drunkard's tea but the most was residual anger.

"Why start now, you've not before. You've let me stew in this pathetic guilt for _six months_."

"I know,-"

"Do you? I did so much for you when you were ill, practically ruined my own relationship and then there you are, blaming me for her demise. You were terribly out of line, do you know that?"

"I do."

"I've hated you, Matthew." Mary all but spat, easy to speak like this while she watched the water.

"You deserve to."

"I know. If your goal was to make me as miserable as you, it was a smashing success, darling!"

Matthew gulped the rest of his tea down and the liquor hit him, shaking his head and smacking his lips against the taste. He rubbed his eyes and both of them were very skittish in their gazes, not too likely to meet brown or blue.

"Mary,_ Mary_," he sighed and she felt his grief in her own soul, aching deeply. "I'm sorry. It was unfair to implicate you...unfair to shame you about something out of your control."

"Matthew it was out of yours, too."

"No, it was in mine – I...kissed you..." He gulped visibly at the memory buried with Lavinia. It was one of the most tender things that had happened between them, she in his arms, he walking again...they danced and they kissed and he admitted things that made her cheeks flush. But she had hardly thought of it since it happened, couldn't even recall what it felt like to be held like him so. "I set it all off."

Mary shook her head, annoyed and sad for him. "Don't be stupid."

"Charming."

"She died because you kissed me? Oh Matthew if nothing else have a little respect for her!"

"Don't talk like that, of course I do,-"

"Then you must know that she was better than dying of a broken heart. She died of a disease, she would never have surrendered life over _you_ – That's my belief. Sitting around with guilt the rest of your life is just to make yourself suffer and in turn feel less guilty, do you see that? It's not helping her to beat yourself over it, it's selfish."

"You have all the answers."

Finally he turned to her and she to him and they were both huffing and puffing, trying to reign in spiralling emotions through deep breaths. It did not help her to see those June blue eyes again.

"I don't. But I know if she had lived, she would have been happy elsewhere. She would have left you in a cloud of dust." Mary said matter of factly and Matthew barked a laugh.

"I blame myself because it's the only way I can live with it. If I hate myself enough maybe it's okay that I'm alive and she isn't."

"And that's a gallant, _stupid_ way to think."

"What we need to take away from this," Matthew said, ending the debate of his morals and soul. "is that I'm very, very regretful – so sorry – that I said the things I did. How sick of me...thought hurting you would lessen the guilt of hurting her. Oh but I just hurt all of us!"

"Thank you for apologizing, Matthew."

"Do you forgive me?"

She shrugged a little and his eyes were soft and the brandy in her system made her hands shake some. "Probably. I only want us to forgive ourselves."

He looked pained and she knew that he didn't – he still didn't, he sat there and talked all he did but he still believed he was the villain in this story, apologized to Mary but hadn't yet forgiven himself.

Mary was not all that upset that he still felt the way he did. She did think he was stupid but perhaps he could bring himself out of it because she wasn't going to try anymore. She had to get herself out of the depths of despair, leave him to his own.

"Any word on Carlisle?" Speaking of her depths of despair.

"Oh," It was nearly a sob as it escaped her and she put her gloved hand to her mouth and he grasped the other. She wasn't about to do this now. "Let's not get into that."

Mary squeezed his hand tightly and turned to him, full of disbelief that here he was.

"How's your therapy?"

"Well enough, they say. I shouldn't have a limp, some back problems, likely. That's the least of it, though. My life will be normal again."

He did not sound relieved or glad for it – letdown, even. Matthew would spend all of his days punishing himself.

"You must live it, then." Mary tucked one leg under herself and faced him more fully, close to where he sat, her mouth dry and heart fluttering.

For the first time since she had known him she thought he was wearing far too many clothes. She had seen him bare, his mangled back, the pale hair on his chest and for some reason she wanted it again – She felt strangely intimate with him in this moment by the water and he was always so bulked up in suits and coats, hats and boots. She was blinking at him, following the curve of his throat, a little nick from shaving near his chin, his shirt collars messily done up – She was close to being overwhelmed by it all.

"I don't know where to go from here." He mumbled quietly and his voice was sweet to her ears, something she had missed.

"I still can't believe you're here now. I was certain you'd disappear back to Manchester and I don't know why you didn't..."

"Mary," Matthew shook his head and his hand was now on her arm, drawing her closer still to him. "You've hated me these long months but I haven't you – I've dwelt on how to manage it all and finally was able to see you, to tell you...I hoped you would have been married and gone so it wouldn't torture me quite so badly but alas – I'm glad we were able to mend things."

"You weren't wrong when you said it was our end, though,"

"_How could it not be,"_ Matthew repeated the words she had spoken to him on that grey, dark day, dressed in black. "I know."

"We've ended this so very many times." Mary was practically folded into his lap, his arms encircling her and her own on his shoulders.

"It never seems to stick." Matthew croaked out, his voice thick with emotion, and surely it was all too much for him, too.

"It's why we keep ruining everything."

"Ruining lives."

Mary touched his face and she felt – she thought she felt excited but she may have felt sick. Sick for how right this seemed, sick for how wrong it was to be happening again, sick for the years lost, the time wasted on people they'd never be with...

Birds chirped overhead, to vacate for winter soon, the sun was hidden in a haze of grey, blue still peeking out from beneath – none so blue as his eyes – and autumn was a feeling in and of itself so matched with Matthew she was beside herself, too many thoughts and jumbled things.

"Matthew." Her leather gloves skimmed across his cheek and he closed his eyes at the rough sensation, lurching forward quite suddenly and burying his face away in her neck. Not stopping on that, he kissed her tenderly there and she was shaking, burning, grabbing his hair in her hands and losing her breath all at once.

She felt his lips, his teeth, his tongue against the skin of her neck and she pressed closer to him, their knees bumping, their torsos touching – Heaving chest against heaving chest.

Mary's eyes fluttered and rolled, closing and blocking out all else but the sensation of him. He smelled like something she could only identify as homey – comfort and liquor and firewood. She bent her face and kissed his cheek as his lips moved featherlight along her throat. For a few, long, torrid minutes they lost themselves in the other, Matthew against her neck, Mary's hands searching warm skin beneath coats and shirt collars.

Her skin tingled from the tickle of his beard and his lips were pink when he pulled back upright, hair flopping over and two buttons undone of his shirt.

Oh.

Oh if nothing else in the world it was Matthew Crawley. If nothing else and no one else, if there was no sense or matter or point in it all, he was everything. They would simply always find themselves back here, together or not. It was true, all their problems stemmed from their inability to seal the other off and what was the sense of trying if they were just going to keep failing? Mary believed in nothing else in that moment except for him and who they could be together. She believed so much in the potential, just for those few short minutes, that her resolve not to marry Carlisle became clear – It would be for Matthew, of course, that she wouldn't marry Richard. None of the three knew it just then, not until months later, but she believed it in her deepest ways.

There was nothing else to save her.

Everything she had missed in the time with Matthew threatened to come spilling out and between then and December, they did. She told him of the ocean and asked where he loved most in the world. She told him of Carlisle and she listened about his therapy, about his writing and his attempts at healing. They grew closer and made up for the missed months and tired wounds were fixed, apologies repeated, distance kept but love grew.

She felt alive when she was with him and he did, too, this she knew. She knew by the way he smiled and while it would take time for the bitter, boiling resentment of himself to subside – She was helping. Of course she was the very reason that he hurt Lavinia but wasn't that all there needed to be said? Willing to step out on a perfectly lovely girl for who? For Mary and if he was supposed to deny himself her for the rest of his life, it would help no one, Mary was right. He never meant to fall back in with her but a spark caught and lit and burned. The ghost of Matthew became flesh once more and it was a resurrection if there ever was.

That day, by the lake, before anything went too far, before lips could find lips and hands could roam too far, she reached behind and pulled his hat back onto his head. They were both breathless and the kisses were lacking, unfulfilled and lips aching for the other.

Carlisle did not deserve much but he did deserve a proper ending, one that she and Matthew herself never seemed to find, and she wasn't about to invite more bad karma. And it couldn't be now, for as lustful as Matthew was just then, he still carried so much hurt for his dearly depart Lavinia that it would have been distasteful to run off together.

"Someday." Matthew said gently, voice gruff and fingers still brushing over her neck. It would be the part of Mary that he would become fixated on when the years went by and they found themselves more suitably in these situations. He would kiss her neck, drawn to it, the smell, the taste, the ability to hide his face from her prying eyes.

Matthew gathered their mugs and the Dewar flask, tucking them away in the bag and when he stood he offered his hand to her. Mary accepted it and clutched his arm as they walked quietly back to the house, his cane swinging in her hand instead of his.

The war had ended a year ago and Mary finally believed that life would go on.

- _fin_


End file.
